


Resolved

by geekmama



Series: A Fork in the Road [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, F/M, Fluff, Humor, Smut, Victorian Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-24
Updated: 2017-10-10
Packaged: 2019-01-04 22:20:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 23,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12177642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geekmama/pseuds/geekmama
Summary: After an idyllic honeymoon in Italy, new adventures, complications, and deception are among the primary elements of Mr. and Mrs. Sherlock Holmes' first year of marriage.





	1. That Other Eden

**Author's Note:**

> For the New Year prompt. Not betaed or Brit-picked, and there are doubtless a great many fairy tale elements to this vision of Victorian England. Dedicated to [Hurin, who wanted more of this universe](http://archiveofourown.org/comments/109378575).
> 
>  
> 
> ******************************

As their train sped toward London in the final hour of their idyllic honeymoon, Sherlock Holmes found his lips quirking in a secretive smile as he watched his wife, sitting opposite him in the luxurious private compartment he had insisted they hire, just as he had done on the outward journey to Portsmouth seven weeks before. He had waved aside her mild objection to the extravagance. After all, it wasn’t every day that one brought one’s new and much beloved spouse to the home of which she would now be mistress. 

Molly would, of course, share the management of 221B Baker Street with Mrs. Hudson, as she had done for several months prior to their marriage. She had been retained to do so after the elderly landlady took a fall down the front steps, injuring herself badly enough to need temporary assistance. Molly had taken over the majority of the responsibilities associated with the running of the residence during that time, and had done an exemplary job, too, considering she had little direct experience in such things. However, Mrs. Hudson had been fully healed and able to resume her role in time for Sherlock and Molly’s honeymoon, and would now continue to assume the greater portion of the work since her erstwhile assistant would be otherwise occupied. In a fortnight’s time, a new year would begin for the students of the London School of Medicine for Women and Mrs. Molly Elizabeth Holmes would once again grace its hallowed halls. Menial tasks such as cooking and cleaning would take second place to her demanding studies -- or rather _third_ place, when one considered the undeniable importance of her _other_ wifely duties. 

He watched her now with great pleasure. She was wearing an elegant traveling suit of deep green velvet, a charming foil for his own plaid tweeds, but she had one small, booted foot tucked up under her, and her posture was not quite erect as she leaned against the squabs, relaxed and intent upon the book in her lap: Osler’s _Principles and Practice of Medicine_. 

So studious. Her brown eyes so innocent as they absorbed the challenging material. Yet he now knew in glorious detail what lay beneath that fashionable ensemble, the prim clothing of a young matron. He knew every curve, every dimple; he’d counted the fine bones of her slender feet, run his fingers over every inch of smooth, pale skin, explored all her secret places, sometimes with slow reverence that brought hissing moans and soft gasps, and sometimes with a burgeoning, abandoned skill that made her curl into him, desperate to muffle her cries against his neck or shoulder. He had kissed tears of replete ecstasy from her cheeks. He had held her trembling form warm and tight until she was a little recovered -- or until she slept, completely undone. 

And God knew -- _God knew!_ \-- she had favored him with similarly intimate services, rejoicing as she began to realize the power she wielded over his mind and body.   

It was strange to think that two months ago he’d had no idea what love could be, had scoffed at what had seemed the nonsensical nattering of poets. And now… well, he could almost write his own. 

Molly looked up at him, suddenly, and saw his expression. She must have felt the weight of his eyes upon her, the tenderness of his gaze. She gave an answering smile and set down her book. 

He held out his hand, and she reached for it and allowed herself to be pulled smoothly, if a little abruptly, across the space that had lain between them. She landed, laughing, in his lap. 

“Were you missing me?” she asked, and kissed his cheek. 

“Yes,” he said, and turned his head, taking her lips with his, a sensual delight. Tongue… teeth… the taste of her heating his blood… 

“Oh!” she breathed, when he pulled back a fraction. She laid a hand against the side of his face and kissed him softly again, then said, “We should wait… won’t we arrive in London soon?” 

“We have half an hour.” He gave her a wicked smile as he reached down and began to ruche up her heavy skirts. “ _I_ can wait, but let me touch you.” 

“But husband...” she muttered with a frown. 

Yet she made no further objection, and, indeed, facilitated his plan as best she could. With some effort he finally managed to slip a hand beneath the mountain of various materials that hid his objective, but then it was his turn to frown as he made a startling discovery: beneath the layers of stylish frock and snowy linen she wore only a scandalous scrap of undergarment, rather than the chaste, frilly knee-length drawers he’d expected. “Oh, shameless!” he accused, trying not to laugh at the smirk that was now gracing her lips. 

To his great satisfaction, her impudence quickly grew less as he set aside his astonishment (and an almost painful surge of desire)  and proceeded toward his stated goal. She did manage to look into his eyes for a few more moments, though, and uttered in reply, “ _Yes…_ God knows, I _am_ shameless… but only for you, my heart! Only for… ah! Sherlock… _Sherlock!_ ” And then words quite failed her, and he had to kiss her again.

 

*

 

In spite of his imperative need to be private with his wife, Sherlock realized that a liaison would have to wait when their carriage drew up to 221B Baker Street and an ecstatic Mrs. Hudson and raucous Archie rushed out to greet them. Molly, once again precise to a pin thanks to the mirror and basin that had been a feature of their first class compartment on the train, embraced their two housemates joyously, blushingly assured Mrs. Hudson that every moment of the honeymoon had been nothing short of heavenly and she would presently tell them all about it -- well, not _everything_ (her blush deepened at this, and she glanced at Sherlock, who probably looked as smug as he felt), but all about their travels and the sights they’d seen. 

“You can have no notion how beautiful Italy is, Mrs. Hudson! And the people are so kind, too. Every moment was an adventure!” 

Martha Hudson gave Molly an impish smile, with a bit left over for Sherlock. “I have no doubt of that, my dear Mrs. Holmes. But come, let’s go in! There are some surprises waiting for the two of you, and I do think you’ll be vastly pleased by them. It will soon be time for us all to sit down to dinner, and then you can tell me… _almost_ everything!” 

Sherlock said, “Come, Archie, help me with these cases. Ladies require an unconscionable amount of luggage, as you can see.” 

Molly turned to meet his teasing glance, looking so pink-cheeked and happy that he could not help but grin. 

But Archie said, “No! Mr. Holmes, I’ll get the bags and things, You have to carry Molly across the threshold! _Mrs. Holmes_ , I mean.” And the boy gave Molly a little bow and a grin by way of apology for addressing her in the familiar style of former days, when she was merely Mrs. Hudson’s hired companion. 

“Oh!” Molly exclaimed, and looked at Sherlock uncertainly. 

He said, however, “You’re quite right, Archie, and I thank you for the reminder. There are far too many niggling traditions surrounding weddings, but this is one to which I can give my unequivocal approval.” And with that he swept Molly up into his arms. 

Archie gave a cheer, and he and Mrs. Hudson (and the cabbie, and a couple of random passers-by) stood back, applauding as Sherlock carried his lovely, laughing bride up the steps and over the threshold of their home.

 

*

 

Mrs. Hudson’s surprise was a new kitchen, and a French chef to go with it. 

“It was your brother’s idea,” she said to Sherlock. “He paid for the remodeling of that old back parlor and the adjoining anteroom -- such a to-do, and the _noise_ and _dust!_ You wouldn’t credit it. But it’s done now, and really it has everything the modern kitchen ought to have. And Alphonse may be a little condescending and high-handed at times, but he makes the most wonderful food!” 

“Mycroft has always been quite the slave to his stomach so I have no doubt of that,” said Sherlock dryly, as they walked down the hall to the new kitchen to investigate. “Let’s see what this Alphonse has in store for us tonight.” 

But though Alphonse favored them with a polite bow, the look in his eye told a different story. He obviously didn’t like being disturbed in what he considered to be his domain, and, though he rattled off a menu at Sherlock’s insistence, it was all in a heavily accented French that Molly, to her mortification, could barely understand. Her old governess, Miss Beaufort, would be so disappointed. 

That wasn’t the worst of it, though. Sherlock was absolutely fuming as he and Molly made their way upstairs to change for dinner, and once they were behind closed doors he launched into a diatribe that basically consigned his brother, Alphonse, and the entire breed of personal chefs, particularly those of the French persuasion, to a special hell. Molly listened patiently and did her best to interject a soothing word or two, but it was not until just before they went down that his ill-humor was assuaged by her efforts -- and that seemed more to do with her appearance than with any words she had uttered. 

“You look beautiful,” he said, quite sincerely, looking her over with regret. “To think that I wasted the last hour complaining of such trivia when I could have taken you to bed -- or had you on the couch, or in the bath…” 

“Sherlock!” 

“You protest?” he exclaimed, obviously wounded. 

“Of course I do!” She came to him and brushed light fingers across his chest, over the heart that beat so strongly for her beneath the superfine broadcloth of his dress coat. “We would not have had enough _time!_ ” 

His expression lightened considerably. “My dear, I believe there may be something to be said for haste in these matters, if the moment is propitious. But time has run out and we must postpone that debate.” He bent down and gave her one last, lingering kiss, then straightened, looking quite satisfied that he’d once again left her dazed.. “Later!” he said, low and soft, and tucked her hand in his arm.

 

*

 

By the end of the meal, even Sherlock had to admit that Mycroft might be a slave to his stomach, but he was also a discerning gourmet, and apparently was well aware of Alphonse’s capabilities. The man could cook. Every dish was not only a prime example of its kind, but was made exceptional with Alphonse’s inimitable touch. Finally, after a pudding of apple tart and homemade ice cream, Sherlock had Archie fetch him in from the kitchen and told him, “That was probably the best dinner I’ve had in my life, sir, and I can only offer my deepest thanks -- and a small douceur.” Sherlock smiled and handed Alphonse a fifty pound note. 

“Hear, hear!” Mrs. Hudson exclaimed, and began the applause to which the other three added their mite. 

Alphonse beamed, and bowed to Sherlock, then took himself off to his kingdom again. 

“Ah, I’m glad you like him,” Mrs. Hudson smiled. “He really is a marvelous cook, and it leaves me free to pay more attention to the rest of the house.” 

Sherlock sighed. “I suppose I’ll have to thank Mycroft. I wonder what sort of favor he’ll demand for this.” 

Molly frowned. “It was our wedding gift!” 

Sherlock lifted a brow. “If you think there will be no strings attached you don’t know my brother. I expect I’ll be off on one of his assignments within the week.” 

“Oh, dear,” said Molly, dismayed. 

“Hopefully, in light of the fact that we’re still newlyweds, it won’t be anything too long -- or dangerous.” 

She lifted her chin. “Perhaps I could come with you.” 

“Mmm. Now there’s a thought.” He smiled at her, then turned to their tablemates. “Mrs. Hudson, our thanks for playing hostess as we celebrate our first night as man and wife in Baker Street. Archie, it’s time for you to be abed, I have several errands for you to run in the morning. And it’s time for the two of us to get some rest, too, don’t you agree, Mrs. Holmes? It’s been a long day of traveling and I know you must be quite exhausted.” 

“Oh… yes. Of course,” Molly said, feeling her cheeks growing warm. She saw Sherlock’s laughing eyes and his imperfectly suppressed smirk and gave him a look of admonishment, even as memory and anticipation provoked the familiar yet still disconcerting physical response that he’d no doubt intended. Not that she was at all averse to retiring early… it would be the first time they would share his bed in this house… 

She cleared her throat and rose from the table. “Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. Can we talk more about Italy in the morning, when I’m… um… more awake?” 

And Mrs. Hudson, actually giggled. “Of course, dear. Plenty of time for that. But don’t try to rise early on my account. I know very well how tiring long days of _travel_ can be.”  

 

*

 

They’d left a lamp burning -- “The better to see you with, my dear,” Sherlock had said smiling wolfishly as he’d teasingly stripped her bare. But their laughter had faded, changing to something more akin to worship as they began to make love to each other, eyes wide open to take in every shadow, every pure line, every subtly changing expression. Her name had been a desperate prayer on his lips twice in as many hours, but before he had taken his own pleasure he had made her grasp the carved posts of the headboard of his bed -- _their_ bed! -- and had done things to her body that would once have seemed barely imaginable to her, making her beg, making her _shriek_ in spite of their housemates’ proximity; then crawling up and taking her that first time when she was still limp and far too sensitive. She had wrapped herself around him, crying out again and again as he moved within her, short, sharp strokes that presently -- miraculously -- brought her to completion a second time, and then he was overtaken himself. 

 _“_ Molly… _Molly!...oh my God! “_  

His fingers had left bruises that time. On her shoulder, her hip. Something similar had happened before, in Florence, during the second week of their honeymoon, and she remembered how pleasantly sore she had been, wandering the Uffizi the following afternoon -- and how gentle he’d been with her for a few days until she’d finally had enough of that, had informed him that she was not some delicate flower, nor was she made of glass. He had apologized most sincerely, his eyes alight with laughter and love, and had rectified his fault in the most delightful ways from that time forward.  

This night, after that first time, they dozed, holding each other close, but they stirred again after a while, and again made love, slow and drowsy, with soft gasps and deep kisses and whispers of encouragement, languorous until the end when suddenly it was not, not at all. After that second time they lay close, facing each other, nose to nose on the pillow. 

It was after midnight, and the lamp was now burning low. She could barely see him, though she could feel his even breath. 

“Are you asleep?” she asked softly. 

“Mmm,” he replied, not opening his eyes. “Did you like that?” 

“You should know,” she said with a smile. 

And at that he did open his eyes, they glinted in the faint light. “I love you, wife.” 

She kissed him. “I love you, too.” 

He smiled back, boyish and content. 

Before his eyes were quite closed again, she spoke. “Husband…” 

“Hmmm?” 

“Are you… will you take me to Madame Celeste’s in Bennet Street, as we discussed in the train station? On our very first morning -- you remember?” 

“I remember.” But his smile had faded somewhat. 

“I… but don’t you want to?” she asked, a little worried. “It’s just… I want to give you as much pleasure as you give me.” 

“If you give me much more you’re like to kill me,” he murmured. But then he reached up and stroked her cheek. “Molly, I… I felt differently about things then. I don’t think… well, I know it sounds utterly bourgeois, like something your execrable brother-in-law would say -- either of your brothers-in-law, actually -- but it wouldn’t be fitting for you to go to such a place.” 

“Oh.” She was surprised, and really quite disappointed. 

“Perhaps I can find a book or two for you on such matters. They do exist, and some are most instructive. And you could speak to Mary Watson, over tea and cakes? God knows she seems to have the knack of keeping Watson happily tied to her apron strings.” 

Molly had to smile at both his bitter tone and the thought of discussing such things with a woman who was no more than a casual acquaintance, though it was true that she hoped to become better friends with the wife of her husband’s colleague. But she now said to Sherlock, “No, I could not! And books might be informative, but would not answer in the same way at all. I wanted to speak to those women… ask them any number of questions. In a spirit of scientific enquiry, you know.” 

“Ah. Well. I admire an inquisitive and perceptive mind as I do few other things in this life, but in this case, I fear you must content yourself with exploring sources of knowledge other than those available at one of the most notorious brothels in England. And further experimentation will not go amiss. I am certainly at your disposal.” 

“I daresay you are,” she said fondly, and gave him another kiss. But then she sighed, and said with some resentment,. “Very well. But you are a tyrannical beast, you know.” 

“Not at all. A benevolent despot at most. Now go to sleep, my love. Mrs. Hudson will be wanting to hear more about Italy -- and will probably have something to say about those shrieks you let out a while ago, when you were supposedly exhausted and asleep.” 

“Oh!” she cried. “You _are_ a beast. How could I help it, when you were doing such things to me? It was entirely your fault.” And she shoved at his chest, and moved as if to turn away. 

But he pulled her close, subduing her, as she’d known he would, and kissed her, and then said, with laughter in his voice,. “Go to sleep, my darling, prickly little wife.” He drew the covers up around them both. 

She gave a dramatic sigh, resigned (and warm, and much cherished). “Good night, you horrid, wonderful beast.”


	2. Opportunities for Community Service

Molly was still enjoying the sleep of the justly exhausted when Sherlock was ready to depart for the Diogenes Club to see his brother the next morning. She’d stirred slightly when he’d disentangled himself from her embrace, but a kiss and soft words had reassured her, and he’d tucked her up warmly before he’d left the room to attend to his morning ablutions. By the time he returned to dress, she was once more deep in slumber, and there she remained when he was ready to depart. He paused, and smiled crookedly to see her there, huddled beneath the bedclothes, with only some of her mussed but beautiful auburn hair partially visible. He became aware of an odd feeling in his breast. Amazement? Pride? Contentment? Maybe all those things and more --something akin to what he had felt as a young boy, perhaps, when he would run and shout for the pure joy of living.

Molly had given that back to him.

He was no longer a boy, though, and there was a time and place for everything. So he took a deep breath, blew her a silent kiss, and went out to greet the day.

Archie was sitting on the bottom step as he descended to the hall, but the boy jumped up and whipped off his cap.

“Good morning, Mr. Holmes! You have some errands for me?”

“Indeed, Archie. I have two messages for you to deliver, a shopping list, and money to complete the required purchases. There should be enough left over to treat yourself to a pie or sweets of some kind, and you can keep the remainder as a token of my gratitude. I am going out this morning but I should be back by noon. Presumably you can complete those tasks and return in time for our midday repast. I may have additional work for you this afternoon, depending on what my brother has to say to me.”

“Thank you, sir!” said Archie, with a quick bow and, without more ado, took himself off.

Sherlock followed him out of the house at a more sedate pace, thankful that Mrs. Hudson did not emerge from her flat to quiz him about… well, anything, really. She had a very sharp eye for an elderly woman, and a sharp wit, too. He knew she was genuinely fond of him, but her raillery could wait until they all sat down to lunch and a glass or two of wine. Then, too, Molly would be there to draw her fire -- though Molly seemed always to bring out the landlady’s gentler side.

Molly brought out his own gentler side, too, though he wouldn’t have thought until recently that he actually had one. But there it was: _shot through the ear with a love song, the very pin of his heart cleft with the blind bow-boy’s butt shaft._ Yet he felt quite certain he was still _a man to encounter Tybalt_ \-- or any other rogue that could be brought to justice by one at the height of his strength and deductive powers. If anything, marriage had thoroughly roused the instinct to protect what was his. And she _was_ his -- just as he was hers. Their every encounter in the bedroom seemed to strengthen that bond. It wasn’t merely the act itself. It was the caring and honesty replete in every moment, their hearts stripped bare along with their bodies.

Mycroft had always warned him about the danger of caring too much. Mycroft wasn’t wrong, but Sherlock had begun to feel he’d only been half-alive before surrendering to the enchantment of love. Of loving, and being loved in return.

All these thoughts were with him on the cab ride to the Diogenes Club, and when he entered Mycroft’s office it was evident that they were still writ large upon his countenance, at least to his discerning brother.

Mycroft greeted him with a sardonic smile. “Well, I see married life agrees with you. Welcome back to reality, brother mine.”

Sherlock laughed, but did not dispute the point. “A reality that now features the woman I am privileged to call my wife is a happy one indeed.”

Mycroft’s brows rose slightly. “You  _ have  _ changed your tune, haven’t you? Well, well. As I believe I said seven weeks ago, I wish you joy. Both of you!”

“Thank you, on both our behalves. And I believe I must thank you for the wedding gift as well. A kitchen and a French chef: really, Mycroft, you couldn’t think of something a trifle more extravagant?”

“Well, I could have, but nothing that would so perfectly serve my own interests.You’re pleased then? Alphonse was trained  at Le Cordon Bleu, but was something of a loose cannon. He acquired a reputation for being difficult and couldn’t get a reference, nor any work that was worthy of his skill, so he came over here. Hopefully he won’t give you any trouble.”

“I believe we’ve made a start at coming to an understanding. And he is an excellent cook. You should come to dinner tonight and see for yourself.”

Mycroft looked a little surprised. “Thank you. I’m afraid duty calls tonight however: a reception at the Russian Embassy that I must attend, However, another time the invitation will be most welcome.”

“Ah. Molly will be disappointed.”

“Will she? Please give my dear sister-in-law my regards, and tell her I will wait upon her soon. And now, what else can I do for you this morning, Sherlock? You aren’t bored already?.”

“Not at all. Just picking up old threads. I’ve sent a message round to Lestrade that I’m once again available, and if you have anything going, I might lend a hand by way of thanks. You’ve done a great deal for us these last months. But I beg you will consider that Molly won’t begin her new term at the medical school for two more weeks.”

“And you wish to enjoy her unfettered companionship as much as possible before she is consumed with her studies?” Mycroft’s expression was surprisingly free of mockery. “You are a fortunate man, I believe.. And as it happens, I might have something that might suit the  _ two  _ of you. A short jaunt out of town to a pleasant seaside resort. Almost another honeymoon destination, though admittedly the atmosphere is not quite on a par with that of Italy.”

“ _ Which _ seaside resort?” Sherlock demanded, fearing the worst.

“Blackpool, I’m afraid.” Mycroft’s lips quirked at Sherlock’s groan. “Indeed, you see why I do not attempt to complete the errand myself. Not only  _ legwork _ , but  _ people  _ \-- and so many of them, too _. _ I really couldn’t. But the mission may be completed quickly, if you don’t wish to linger, and there is little likelihood of danger or mishap. An ideal assignment for a newlywed couple, in fact.”

Sherlock glared a bit. “I suppose you saved this for my return.”

“I may have done,” Mycroft said, an amused glint in his eye. “But really, you have to admit that Molly, at least, will be charmed.”

 

*

 

Molly  _ was  _ charmed. Ordinarily Sherlock would have been both annoyed and bored beyond permission, and the fact that he was neither was entirely due to Molly’s unabashed enthusiasm for every aspect of their new “adventure”.

Their second evening at Baker Street saw them sitting down to another extraordinary dinner, courtesy of Alphonse, this time attended by the Watsons as well as Mrs. Hudson and Archie. Over a really excellent _bisque de homard_ , Sherlock announced that he and Molly would be off to Blackpool on the morrow to transact some business for the British government.

Mrs. Hudson nearly choked. “But you’ve only just returned!” she protested.

“True, but there’s nothing for it. Mycroft sent word an hour ago that everything is arranged: first class accommodations on the train, a suite at a decent hotel, a stipend to cover the cost of meals and such souvenirs as Molly will be unable to resist -- I believe I saw the inside of every shop in Rome and Florence these last weeks.” He smirked at his wife’s obvious chagrin, and added, “He’s sending a cab to take us to the station at ten o’clock tomorrow.”

Molly said, “You know I tried to limit my spending, and it was you who insisted on buying the pearl set, and this.” She gestured to the very fine brooch at her throat, hand-painted roses on enamel, surrounded by a delicate gold filigree. “But how kind of Mycroft to give us such a treat!”

But John raised his brows. “Blackpool?” he asked, barely stifling a chuckle.

Sherlock gave him a quelling look. “I’m sure it will be fine. We should be back in a very few days, in any case.”

“And Molly will enjoy it excessively,” Mary said. “The sea air, walks on the beach, the aquarium, the new Tower, and dancing in the evenings. How I envy you!”

Sherlock had been skeptical of Mary’s cheery predictions, but in the event they all came to pass. Seeing Blackpool through his bride’s innocent eyes made the garish surroundings and teeming masses of holiday-goers tolerable -- even amusing much of the time. They were away five days, two devoted mostly to travel, two to seaside fun in exceptionally clement weather, and one in which it poured rain and they stayed abed nearly all the day. The four evenings they were in town were devoted to some surprisingly excellent dining, theatre-going, and dancing, after which they would retire to their well-appointed suite at the Clifton Hotel in Talbot Square, by the North Pier, and be blessedly, completely alone. There was no need to rise early, so they enjoyed a delicious breakfast in bed each morning, in  _ every  _ sense of the phrase. And Mycroft’s assignment merely consisted of contacting one of his agents -- a stout grey-haired female who sold parasols and gathered gossip from one of the many booths on the strand -- to receive a detailed report on some crime syndicate that was beginning to gain a foothold in the town.

It was almost with regret that Sherlock and Molly bid Blackpool adieu on the fifth day and boarded the train that would return them to London. They sat side by side in their large private compartment, watching the green countryside move past, and when Molly, replete with contentment, presently dozed off, leaning against his shoulder, Sherlock found himself realizing that he had rarely felt happier in his life.

 

*

 

The next morning, however, a shadow crept over Molly’s contentment.

Returning from the toilet as dawn crept into their bedroom, Molly slipped into bed and curled close, her aspect subdued. “I… I’ve… um… it’s that time of the month for me, I’m afraid,” she said, trying to sound unconcerned and failing miserably.

Sherlock frowned and slid down, repositioning himself so that he could lay a warm hand upon her abdomen, well aware that, even discounting the previous month, when they were in Venice, she always found menstruation a trial for the first day or two. “Are you in much pain? A small dose of laudanum--”

“Oh, no!” she broke in. “I… I dislike it so very much. And I don’t want to be half asleep all day. Mary and I are to meet for lunch at the Holborn.”

“Very well. But if I find you martyring yourself for no good reason--”

“I won’t! It… I don’t think it will be as bad as it was last month.”

“No, indeed.”

In Venice, Sherlock had felt that a doctor should be summoned, Molly seemed to be suffering so. The man’s diagnosis -- “...  _ it is perhaps a miscarriage, but not to worry, there’s little danger from what you tell me, she can’t be very far along _ …” --  had shocked Sherlock to the bone, and Molly had wept as though her heart were breaking until the doctor’s prescribed draft had pulled her under, immersing her in restful, healing sleep. Physically, she recovered within a few days, and their remaining time in Venice had been quite enjoyable, but a cloud had hung over her spirits until they moved onto Milan and intimate relations were resumed, though he put firm limits on their activities until the full fortnight of abstinence the doctor had recommended was complete -- much to Molly’s indignation.

From that first night at the Savoy, she’d seemed to enjoy sexual congress as much as he did himself.

_ And _ she wanted a child.  _ His _ child.

Sherlock, however, was ambivalent about the prospect of offspring, and he had a (thus far hidden but all too real) dread at the thought of inflicting upon his beloved young wife the pain and risks associated with childbirth.  He realized that the event was probably inevitable, and soon, considering their mutual enthusiasm in the bedroom, but on this morning he could not help thinking it was all to the good that she would at least begin the fall term at the medical school unencumbered by pregnancy.

Unfortunately, he made the mistake of saying as much.

She lay very still, looking at him, biting her lip. And then she blurted, “Sherlock… don’t you  _ want  _ us to have a child?”

“Did I say that?” he said, with a pretense of strong resentment.

“No! I’m… Forgive me. I just find it so disappointing myself that… well.”

Sherlock drew her against him and she clung to him, rather stiffly, trying not to give in to tears. “Sweetheart,” he said quietly, “you’ve plenty of time for that. And excessive anxiety will only hinder the process -- I have it on good authority.”

He felt her smile. “John and Mary?” she asked.

“Precisely. Watson says that it wasn’t until they both stopped worrying about it that they achieved a favorable outcome.”

“Mary told me before we left for Blackpool that she suspects that Rosamund may have a little brother or sister in eight months. Don’t tell John, though -- she wants to wait just a little longer. She told me she miscarried twice before she was able to carry Rosamund to term.”

“Mmm. I won’t say anything. But you must promise me you will put the notion out of your head for now, as far as Baby Holmes is concerned. Enjoy your experience at school, and your studies!”

“And my beloved husband, again, in a few days,” she said, making an effort to sound impishly cheerful.

He smiled, and slid his hand down to caress her lovely, round backside. “You know, there are any number of things we can do right now, provided you are so inclined. I’m not at all squeamish about a little blood, and studies have shown that orgasm can be an aid in the relief of menstrual cramps.”

“Really? They’ve done studies on such things?”

“I know I read it somewhere. But perhaps we should do what we can to confirm their findings. In a spirit of scientific enquiry.”

She chuckled at having her own phraseology tossed back at her, and moved, raising her lips to his and saying huskily, “Yes, please, Mr. Holmes,” before she kissed him.

 

*

 

Molly started the fall term at the London School of Medicine for Women a week later and happily settled into her studies. But within the first few days, her interest was increased tenfold by the announcement that all third year students would be required to participate in community service.

“And where do they have you going? You are supervised, are you not?” asked Sherlock over one of Alphonse’s simpler, yet still excellent repasts one evening. Archie was dining with the family of a friend, and Mrs. Hudson had traveled into Devon to visit her sister, so it was just the two of them sitting at the small dining table in their own flat, a cheerful fire burning in the grate and thick fog closing in outside, increasing the sense of seclusion.

“Oh, yes. There is an advisor and often other students from my class. We’ve been assigned to the Brooks-Henley Institution for Girls -- they are most of them orphans, but there are some who are placed there because of difficult situations at home. And we married ladies are able to go also to the Magdalene Hospital.”

“Really?” said Sherlock, lifting a brow. “And how do you find that?”

Molly grimaced. “Rather dreadful, as a woman. There, but for the grace of God…. But as a medical student, I find it quite fascinating, and I am very happy to be able to aid those poor women in some small way. I was able to witness a birth yesterday.”

“Did you?” Sherlock said, too blandly.

Molly smiled. “It was most interesting, and my advisor told us that it was quite an easy birth, too. It did not seem that way to me, but I daresay I’ll get used to such things. They gave the mother a little chloroform at the end, just as the queen had with her eighth child, which made the last of it go much more smoothly and quietly. But the poor thing was only fifteen years of age -- it’s not surprising she was terrified, and unable to bear the pain with any kind of stoicism.” Molly took another bite of Poulet à la Provençale, then frowned at Sherlock, who looked a little disturbed, and even rather pale. “Are you alright?”

“Of course,” he said, and visibly rallied, with the help of a big sip of wine.

But it was noticeable that he asked no more questions about the Magdalene Hospital or the Institution, at least at that time, and she did not share with him that she had actually been assigned a third venue for community service, and one that she quite naturally, if reprehensibly, found to be the most interesting of all: Madame Celeste’s in Bennet Street, off St. James’.


	3. Age of Discoveries

Within a few weeks, Mrs. Molly Holmes’ presence at Madame Celeste’s became an accepted thing by all concerned, except by her husband, of course, who knew nothing about it. His guilty but enthralled wife went at least twice a week to the brothel, along with her adviser, of course, though that worthy was persuaded to allow Molly a great deal of time on her own through the simple expedient of flattery on the part of Madame Celeste’s housekeeper, a woman whose sense of humor and devotion to Madame allowed her to carry out this subterfuge in fine style. The adviser, Miss Pringle, would be asked humbly to give her opinion of various aspects of the house’s environment and on the health and welfare of the serving staff, which was numerous. That the housekeeper and serving staff were, to a man, laughing at her behind her back -- for the house was run like clockwork and the serving staff well cared for and very well paid -- Miss Pringle never suspected. 

It had all been arranged on Molly’s very first visit to the establishment. Madame Celeste, having been introduced and immediately realizing exactly who this young medical student was, and, more importantly, who her husband was, contrived to see Molly alone in her office, ostensibly to consult her about a chronic skin condition that manifested in a most delicate area and had baffled every doctor the woman had consulted. This was no more than the truth (“Lies can complicate things quite wretchedly, my dear Mrs. Holmes, and quite unnecessarily”), but though an examination was carried out, that was not Celeste’s goal in meeting with the wife of Sherlock Holmes. She seemed sincerely interested in what Molly had to blushingly relate about their wedding night and their subsequent weeks in Italy, and Celeste laughed when Molly told her how Sherlock had reneged on his promise to allow her to visit the brothel in disguise.

“I am not surprised in the least. Not content with wedding an unschooled virgin, once a gentleman of the higher orders has tied the knot he props his wife on a pedestal and presumes she has no more interest in sexual matters than the innocent he married. And then, when he grows dissatisfied at home, he comes to us. I’ve seen it time and again.”

Molly’s dismay was so plain on her face at this that Madame said, quickly, “No, no, my dear, that won’t happen to you! We’ll make certain of that.” And then and there, Madame began advising Molly in some of the ways in which a gentleman’s pleasure might be increased. “But you must implement any changes in your behavior with the greatest caution, since your husband was unwilling to allow you even to visit here, much less take instruction. Foolish, but there it is. He must believe these tricks and practices sprang from your own imagination. So nothing too startling at first. Later, when he grows more accustomed to your innovations, you can allow yourself to be more adventurous.”

“This is so kind of you!” exclaimed Molly, “and it makes me very proud to know that you hold Sherlock in such great esteem!”

Celeste laughed again. “You _should_ be proud, but… well, your husband seemed an odd sort, very aloof to my girls’ blandishments, all business except on that one occasion when he came here to receive instruction on your behalf. It piqued me, cool and handsome and condescending as he was. I tell you, Mrs. Holmes, to know that he is being entirely undone several nights a week by his innocent little wife, thanks to our tutelage, will give me more satisfaction than I can easily convey.”

Molly suspected that Celeste was also pleased at the notion that the wife of Sherlock’s bosom would be deceiving him, even if it was only by a sin of omission, but after that first visit, Molly was fairly caught. The things she learned from Madame Celeste and from some of the other girls were both titillating and to the point, and as she began over the weeks to employ them in the bedroom, she could not help but notice how greatly her dear husband was affected, and how loving were his glances at all other times.

 

*

 

One afternoon in the middle of October, Molly had come alone to visit Madame Celeste and was trotting up the back stairs of the house with a vial of the precious unguent she’d discovered that actually eased Madame’s skin condition. She’d come twice before by herself for this purpose, always using the servant’s entrance, and Madame had been most grateful, though she cautioned Molly to be extremely careful that she was not observed.

“The trustees at your school wouldn’t like you coming here unaccompanied by your advisor, and your husband would likely take a dim view of such behavior as well. I don’t wish to incur his antipathy.”

But Molly had promised to be careful, and the unguent she’d brought (purchased from a Chinese doctor in Limehouse, near the Magdalene Hospital,  if Madame had but known) proved so soothing and beneficial to the woman that she actually paid Molly considerably more than its actual cost. “For I cannot imagine that your husband gives you anything more than pin money, and moreover, if you will take my advice on financial matters as you are wont to do regarding those of the bedroom, you should open your own bank account and add to it as you can, in case of a rainy day.”

Molly, whose “pin money” from Sherlock consisted of a very generous quarterly allowance, and already feeling enough guilt over deceiving him, did not elect to take this advice, though she did find a hiding place for her profits in their bedroom, a shoebox at the back of the wardrobe containing some elegant pumps that unfortunately tended to pinch and that she would likely never wear again, though they were too pretty to easily give away.

She was acquiring a nice little nest egg, thanks to Madame Celeste’s stubborn malady, and it was with happy anticipation of adding to it that she ascended the stairs, heading toward Madame’s office on the second floor. However, once she reached the first floor landing, she came upon a most disturbing sight: a lovely young woman, no more than a girl really, whose name, Molly knew, was Lucinda.

Lucinda’s face was much tear-stained, her mouth was set in a tragic line, and when she saw Molly she gasped, exclaimed, “Oh! Oh!” and burst into renewed sobs, burying her face in a large handkerchief.

“Lucinda!” Molly cried. “What is wrong? Are you unwell?” For every other time she had seen Lucinda she had been aglow with unabashed happiness, a somewhat unusual state for one of Madame Celeste’s working girls who, young as some of them were, tended to adopt a wry cynicism early on in their careers.

“No! I… Oh, ma’am… read _this!_ ” And Lucinda handed Molly a rather damp and somewhat crushed letter.

Molly smoothed it carefully and read:

 

 

> My Darling Lucinda,
> 
> It is with a heavy heart that I write this missive, one that contains news that I know will be difficult  for you to bear. My father has discovered our _affaire du coeur_. I have met with him, perforce, and he has given me to understand that he will disinherit me entirely if I continue to frequent Madame Celeste’s or any other house of ill-repute. My intention of offering you marriage he treated with the utmost contempt, telling me that I must decide for myself whether you would be willing to live with a man with no expectations and no prospects (since my poetry, though I know you hold it in high regard,  is unlikely to earn me a living wage) and whether it would be right even to offer you such a life.
> 
> I have to admit that the answer that groaned within my breast was “No.”
> 
> My heart of hearts, it grieves me more than I can say to tell you we must part, and that I pray you will quickly find happiness with some other man. I myself will doubtless live out my life as a bachelor, for I cannot conceive of any woman who could take your place in my affections, and I will not marry for position or for filthy lucre, no matter what my father says. I beg you will find it in your tender heart to forgive me, and will sometimes allow your thoughts to touch upon the hours of bliss we have experienced during this idyll, ill-fated as it has been.
> 
> I am, and ever will be, your own,
> 
> _Bertram_

 

Molly, having read the letter, looked up at Lucinda in horror and sympathy.

Lucinda said, “My life is over!” and gave a hitching sob, her tears overflowing once more.

Molly put her arm about the girl. “Lucinda, you must not say such a thing!”

“Oh, Mrs. Holmes, you do not understand. I… I am not like the other girls here. I have only been here since August, and my Bertram was the only man I… I ever…”

“The only one to have bedded you?” Molly asked, surprised. “How is this? Were you a maiden when he first came to you?”

Lucinda nodded, and pressed the handkerchief to her trembling lips.

Molly said, “If you please, tell me how it all happened. I always thought that perhaps you were of genteel birth, and now…”

“I was,” said Lucinda. “My father is a clergyman in… in the north of England, a most God-fearing man, but… well.... My dear mother died two years ago. It was a dreadful time, and I… I cannot but believe it turned my father’s intellects somewhat, for though he had never been warm, he became far worse, almost a recluse, except on Sundays, and when parish business arose. And… well… I look a great deal as my mother did in her youth. Many of the townspeople remarked on it. My father seemed almost to resent that, and as the months passed, he kept me more and more restricted to home.  But there was one young man, the son of the local blacksmith, who would come and do work on our property, and… he had a fondness for me. One day, we were both in the orchard behind the house and he… stole a kiss. It was nothing, truly! But my father witnessed it, and he was… oh, _dreadfully_ angry. He sent the young man away, telling him never to return. And then… oh ma’am! He... he cut a switch from one of the trees and took me in the house and… and...” Her voice trailed off and she had grown very pale, quite overcome at the memory.

“Oh, Lucinda!” Molly breathed, horrified.

But then Lucinda looked at Molly, her face set. “I ran away. I put on my best clothes, _stole_ all the money from the poor box in the chapel where I had gone to church every Sunday of my life, and I ran away to… to the nearest town and bought a ticket for the train to London. There had been an advertisement in the Times, for work as a lady’s companion, and I was determined I should apply for the post. And I did, too… but they thought me too young, though I had turned seventeen. That was last July. I tried then to find other work in service, through an agency, but it seems it’s very difficult when one has no references -- and not much experience. We had a housekeeper at home, you see, and a girl to help her, and then there was Cook. I am afraid I didn’t learn much about domestic work or… or anything useful.” Lucinda fell into dejection at this, snuffled, and then blew her straight little nose with the damp handkerchief.

“But how did you end up here? And with Bertram?”

Lucinda smiled slightly. “I was nearly out of funds entirely -- London is so very expensive a place to live -- but then Sally Ripple befriended me.”

“Sally?” said Molly, frowning. “You mean that little dark-haired girl who seems so lively?”

“She _is_ lively, and I still believe she has a good heart. She’s Madame’s favorite of the younger girls. She saw that I was close to despair, and at wit’s end trying to think what to do. She brought me here. Madame said she had a surfeit of servants and needed no more, but if I wished to become… well. I resisted for two weeks. And then, one night, I saw Bertram and… and fell in love. And I told Madame I would have him.”

“Did he know you were…” Molly hesitated, fascinated and appalled.

“Oh, yes. He had to pay a great deal, I believe, for… for my maidenhood. But he loved me. I know he did. From that very first time. And I saw him many times after that over these last two months. I knew he would rescue me from this life. I knew it, though the other girls… they weren’t as certain. But they did encourage me to hope. Only Madame laughed at the notion. And it seems… she was correct.” Lucinda sniffed again, and wiped her eyes.

“What will you do now?” Molly asked, quietly.

“Madame still maintains she needs no additional servants. But… _I can’t_. I can’t give myself to any other man. I won’t. _I won’t!_ ”

Molly put her arm about the girl’s shoulders. “No. There must be some other way. Lucinda, will you stay here until I speak with Madame Celeste? I am here to deliver the medicinal unguent she has found so beneficial and I know she will listen to me.”

“But... what will you tell her?”

“Well… if you had the chance to become a kitchen maid in a… a somewhat strange but quite genteel home, would you leave this place?”

Lucinda stared, and breathed, “Oh, ma’am. Do you mean--”

“Wait here!” Molly commanded imperiously, eyes glinting, and an impish smile on her lips.

 

*

 

“Alphonse!”

Alphonse turned from the cutting board where he had been creating a mountain of perfectly julienned root vegetables which he would presently braise with butter and herbs and salt and pepper and just half a clove of garlic so as not to overwhelm the delicate flavors of the-- but here he stopped his musings to stare at the not one but two women before him. Or woman and girl. Though the stranger, the girl, was several inches taller than his mistress, and built on queenly lines, very pretty in an English Rose sort of way, and she was obviously very young -- not even of age, if Alphonse was any judge (and he was).

“Madame?” he asked, the question in his voice and disapprobation in his eye.

“Alphonse, you will forgive me for interrupting you at a crucial point in your preparations--”

“All moments are crucial,” Alphonse said in baleful tones.

“Yes, so you have given us to understand,” said Mrs. Holmes, with a somewhat humorous sidelong glance at the girl.

The girl did not notice, however, but looked upon Alphonse with awe and some trepidation, as was certainly appropriate.

But Mrs. Holmes continued, “In any case, you have been hinting for some time that you need an assistant--”

“An _escuelerie_.”

“Precisely. Though I do hope you will deign to teach Lucinda some of your cooking skills, if she shows the aptitude for it.”

Alphonse stared, first at Molly Holmes, then at… Lucinda. He said, “This?”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Holmes.

“This is not a boy. What will I do with a female? They do not belong in the kitchen.”

“Oh, rubbish!” exclaimed Mrs. Holmes, a stubborn glint in her eye. “Lucinda will be more than equal to any task you may set for her. Is that not so, Lucinda?”

“Oh… oh, yes, ma’am. Only… if Monsieur doesn’t want--”

“I don’t,” stated Alphonse, and prepared to turn away.

“I will give you a raise in pay,” Mrs. Holmes stated.

Alphonse considered this, as well as her determination. “How much?”

“Two pounds a month.”

“Five,” said Alphonse.

“Three and that’s my final offer. Otherwise you _will_ accept her, with only a good grace and no increase in pay at all.”

Alphonse drew himself up and glared at the mistress of the house, but it had little effect. She had been coming into her own these last two months since her return from Italy. Her husband flitted about London in a daze of lingering bliss, and no wonder. She was a force to be reckoned with, his lovely, kind, and energetic young mistress.

Alphonse bowed slightly. “Three, then.” He looked at Lucinda and jerked his chin in the direction of the sink. “Put on an apron and get to work.”

Mrs. Holmes gave him a glowing smile in thanks.

 

*

 

Lucinda settled in quite happily at 221B Baker Street. Wary of Alphonse, at first, she soon grew used to his gruff ways, worked hard to please him, and began to pick up bits and pieces of culinary knowledge. There was much more to cooking than she’d ever supposed when she was growing up in quiet, conservative Yorkshire, and she found it exciting and immensely satisfying when she achieved any success -- and to receive a nod of approval from Alphonse made her quite giddy.

Mrs. Hudson and Mr. Holmes, the famous consulting detective, each gave her a nod of approval when Molly first introduced her to them (“... _one of the girls I came to know through my community service -- and Alphonse has been complaining he needed help_ …”) but otherwise barely acknowledged her existence. Young Archie was friendlier, but was so wary of Alphonse that she rarely saw him since she spent all her time in Alphonse’s kingdom.

Or nearly all. After a week, Alphonse had allowed her to serve some of the dishes he so lovingly prepared (and it _was_ love, he had the greatest admiration for his employers and went to great lengths to please them). And it wasn’t more than a few days later before she was delivering all of them to the table, since Alphonse preferred to lurk ominously in his particular domain.

It was this new task that finally revealed to her, and to her mistress, the true state of affairs. One morning, a Saturday, Mr. and Mrs. Holmes, Mrs. Hudson, and Archie were sitting round the breakfast table, and Lucinda was carrying in a tray with a dish of kedgeree upon it, the smell of the haddock, eggs, and spices wafting up to her. Her stomach had been a little delicate lately, but now it revolted entirely. She quickly set the dish on the table and hurried from the room.

But her distress had not gone entirely unnoticed. Mrs. Holmes came looking for her, and found her in the tiny back garden, vomiting into one of the flowerbeds.

“Lucinda!” said the kind, worried voice, gently rubbing her back. “You are ill! Why didn’t you let us know? You should be abed.”

Lucinda carefully wiped her mouth with the edge of her apron and then reluctantly turned to her mistress. “No, I am not ill. Not like that. Oh, Mrs. Holmes…” Her voice trailed off in utter despair.

And Mrs. Holmes gasped, suddenly realizing what was amiss. “You are with child!” she said, almost whispering the words.

Lucinda nodded, and her eyes filled with tears.


	4. Desperate Times and Deception Revealed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stepping up posting the rest because it's FINISHED! Go me!
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“Mycroft, Molly will finish her third year in _three days!”_ Sherlock exclaimed in exasperation. 

Mycroft winced at the tone and volume of his brother’s protest, but said, reasonably, “Sherlock, you cannot think to take Molly with you on such a venture. The logistics will be complicated enough, as you must very well know, and there may be considerable risk involved.” 

“I’ll take her to stay at our cousin’s home in Paris until I’ve concluded the assignment, after which I can join her and we can embark upon a… a _petite tour_ of the city. Paris in May! And she’s never set foot in France. It would be the perfect reward for the diligence she’s shown all this year. She’s received nothing but top marks, and the curriculum is most challenging!” 

“I am aware of that, and I am entirely one with you in holding your wife in the highest esteem. Her beauty and kindness are only matched by her intelligence and perseverance. But consider, Sherlock: she will have no other acquaintance in Paris -- which is many miles from your own destination -- and our cousin is, if you will remember, not the most reliable of hostesses. Eccentric to a fault, in fact. Surely you have not forgotten the Moulin Rouge disaster? I really don’t think you would care to leave your lovely, innocent little wife alone with the notorious Adelene for any appreciable length of time on her first visit to the City of Lights.” 

Sherlock frowned. Obviously he did remember the Moulin Rouge disaster, the event itself and his subsequent hours in the custody of the unsympathetic Paris police having left their mark. Finally he spoke. “Damn you, I suppose you’re right.” He sniffed, disgusted and disconsolate. 

Mycroft said, “I am deeply sympathetic to your interests, as you know, brother mine, but this affair is of grave concern in Whitehall. I beg you will once again do your utmost for queen and country and set aside your personal… _needs_. I am hopeful that you will be able to conclude the business and return to London within a fortnight. It’s not so long a time.” 

“It’s a _fortnight_ too long,” Sherlock snapped. “But I suppose I’ll do it. For _queen and country_.” This last was said with sneering mockery. 

But Mycroft knew his brother far too well to take his derisive tone seriously. He smiled, very slightly. “On behalf of that queen and country, I give you my thanks.” 

Sherlock acknowledged this with an impatient roll of his eyes and said, “Goodbye, Mycroft,” and turned to take his leave. 

“I’ll send a cab for you at eight tomorrow morning,” Mycroft told him as his brother strode out. 

“Fine!” came the disgusted, disembodied reply, as the door swung closed -- not slammed, but very nearly. 

Mycroft sat down behind his desk and sighed, once again both envious and displeased at his brother’s surrender to sentiment -- at least where Molly Elizabeth Holmes was concerned.

 

*

 

Sherlock’s office and study had been relocated to the renovated basement flat (technically 221C) shortly after his marriage, and he was now standing behind his desk, getting some papers together that would be pertinent to his assignment in France, when there came a knock upon the door. 

“Come!” he called. 

To his surprise, Alphonse opened the door and came in, toque in hand, looking strangely diffident. “Monsieur Holmes… may I speak to you on a matter of the utmost importance?” 

Sherlock frowned. “What the devil is it? If you’re looking for another raise in pay I will tell you to your head that you already make nearly as much as the queen’s sous chef -- not that I grudge it to you. God knows. I’ll be fat as a flawn one of these days, your cooking is so irresistible.” 

Alphonse almost smiled at this, his lip lifting ever so slightly as his eyes swept over Sherlock’s lithe form. But then he said, quite seriously, “No, it is on another issue that I find I must come to you. It… it is _presque incroyable!_ And yet, I swear to you, I did not _know!_ ” 

“Know what?” Sherlock snapped. 

“Lucinda! _Mon Dieu_ , she has done so well in my kitchen all these months, but… Monsieur Holmes! She is… _enceinte!_ ” And he made a swift gesture that indicated the rounded abdomen of pregnancy. 

Sherlock stared for a moment, then, quite nonsensically, exclaimed, “ _What?_ ” 

Alphonse said quickly, “It is true! I would wager my life -- she is not too far along, I think, but who can tell?” He shrugged. “She is of queenly proportions, and with that loose _tablier_ she affects I… I am ashamed to say I never noticed until this very morning!” 

Sherlock sat down, the pieces coming together swiftly, painfully. “Damnation!” he finally muttered, and then looked up at the chef, grimly. “Very well. I’ll take care of it. You are dismissed.” 

Alphonse bowed, his face stoic, but his black eyes most expressive of sadness, turned, and left the room. 

Sherlock picked up a pen and began to tap it on desk, dreading what must surely come next, and increasingly angry that such a thing should have come to light when he was to leave for France on the morrow. He uttered a vile oath again, and then rose to his feet and went swiftly to the door, jerking it open. “ _Archie!_ ” he shouted up the steps. 

“Sir?” came the reply, and immediately Archie appeared above, looking startled. 

Sherlock made an effort to subdue his ire and said more evenly, “Fetch Lucinda to me at once, if you please. And then go up and tell Mrs. Holmes that I wish to see her. _Immediately_.”

 

*

 

The interview was even more tortuous than Sherlock had expected it to be. 

Lucinda had been weeping and barely capable of giving a coherent reply from the first, and Molly now looked so young and frightened, for all her twenty-three years, that Sherlock began to feel as though he were some harsh, overbearing headmaster, the sort he’d occasionally run afoul of in his school days, who took real pleasure in the “duty” of meting out what passed for justice in their small minds and hidebound worlds. He shifted uncomfortably, with a sudden, vivid recollection of the anticipatory dread, the humiliation, the sounds of the cane slicing the air and meeting exposed and all-too-tender flesh, the searing pain, chest burning and teeth set hard against any sign of weakness. 

 _Bloody hell_. 

He raked a hand through his hair, took a deep breath and said, as gently as he could manage, “Molly, you should have come to me with this months ago, when you first found out, and I believe you know that. But all is not lost. Lucinda’s father may have used her harshly in the past, but he _is_ her father and a man of the cloth. I am certain that he will, in Christian charity, take her back and give her and her child the care she needs.” 

“But husband… surely we can--” 

“No!” he said firmly, quite tired of arguing. “I will give her sufficient funds to travel comfortably to Yorkshire, and a gift of twenty pounds besides, for she has done well here, even with so exacting a master as Alphonse can no doubt be. But go she must, either to her father to Yorkshire, or if she will not, then to the Magdalene Hospital!” 

“Oh, no!” Molly cried, and Lucinda sobbed as though in utter despair. 

Exasperated, Sherlock half shouted, “ _Our house is not the place for a baby!_ ” 

And Molly turned absolutely white. 

 _Bloody HELL!_  

He backtracked as quickly as he could. “I didn’t mean--” 

“I know,” she interrupted, her eyes full of pain, lips set. “I know. Indeed, I apologize most sincerely for bringing such worry and discomfort upon you, and at such a time. I will take care of it. I promise you.” 

Sherlock frowned. “If I were not leaving on that damned assignment--” 

“But you are! And you must not be concerned. Please, husband. I will take care of it.” 

His eyes narrowed. “You have only to see that she gets on the train.” 

“I will. I promise you that.” 

He sighed, still not satisfied, but…”Very well. I must trust you in this. Now take her away, for God’s sake. Lucinda, dry your tears. Recollect that such dramatics cannot be good for your child. Mrs. Holmes will help you pack your things.” 

“Y-yes s-sir,” Lucinda managed, her voice hitching pitifully. She turned away.

 His wife turned to go as well, but Sherlock blurted, “Molly!” 

She stopped for a moment, not turning, but then looked over her shoulder, tried to smile, and said in a voice edged with tears, “I must help her pack!” And then she accompanied the dolorous kitchen maid -- and soon to be young unwed mother -- hurriedly from the room.

 

*    

 

Once they reached the tiny bedchamber on the third floor that had been Lucinda’s for the last seven months, the girl broke down again. “Oh, ma’am, I cannot go back to my father! If he whipped me so for no more than a kiss…” 

“You shall not go back,” Molly said softly but very firmly. “I have an idea that may answer.” 

“Oh, ma’am! You must not incur your good husband’s wrath for my sake!” 

Molly dashed away a tear but said, “My plan for you is the least of it, I fear. I am a bad wife, when all is said and done, and… and if he disowns me for deceiving him these many months I must try to bear it.. But I will _not_ send you back to your father, nor off to that dreadful Magdalene Hospital, that is certain.” 

“Where then?” Lucinda asked, at a loss. 

“Bognor Regis, Lucinda.” she said, and at Lucinda’s confusion she laughed, although there was a note of despair in it, too.

 

*

 

Molly was brushing her hair when Sherlock finally finished packing his things, long after the end of what was perhaps the most uncomfortable dinner she’d ever had since coming to live at Baker Street all those months ago. Mrs. Hudson had chattered blithely, trying to smooth things over, but Sherlock had given only perfunctory replies, and Molly had remained mostly silent, unable to agree that it was all for the best, and that Lucinda would like being home in Yorkshire again, after things settled down. 

Now, however, they were alone and Sherlock came to stand behind her, their eyes meeting in the mirror. He took the brush from her hand and gently ran it through her hair a few times, then set it down on the vanity table. 

“Come to bed with me, wife,” he said, his voice low. 

She stood quickly up and turned to face him, tears stinging her eyes. “Sherlock!” she whispered, and when he bent and kissed her she gave a little cry and clung to him fiercely. 

He carried her to their bed. 

It was not like other times. There was an edge of sorrow to their encounter, and desperation, too, as though by taking each other apart they could rebuild the trust that had been damaged. There was pain as well as pleasure that night, given and taken, and Molly rejoiced in all of it and recklessly used every trick she had learned over the months to see to it that Sherlock, too, was finally reduced to helpless cries that echoed her own, uncaring that they might be heard in the black, silent night. They lay gasping after that first time, both of them astonished, their eyes glittering in the dim light. And then they began again, more slowly but just as intent upon destruction. 

After that second time, they could do no more, but slept, a damp tangle of limbs and bedclothes, the smell of fresh linens now thoroughly overpowered by earthier scents, until the thin light of dawn peeped through the break in the heavy curtains over the window.

 

*

 

Sherlock’s bag was being stowed and he was about to hop into the cab his brother had sent round at precisely eight o’clock, when Molly caught at his sleeve, and he turned to her once more. 

“Another kiss?” he asked with a smile, though his eyes were sad. 

“Yes, always!” she replied. “But Sherlock, will you grant me one thing?” 

“What’s that, love?” he said, his voice gentle. 

“May Lucinda stay for my celebratory dinner in two days? I’ve been given to understand that I’ve completed the year at the top of my class and… and I think it would cheer her to be there.” And Molly’s pride in her accomplishment  swelled to ease her sorrows for a moment. 

Sherlock said, “Yes -- but no longer. You understand?” When she nodded, he added, “How sorry I am that I must miss it myself. I’m very proud of you, wife.” 

She beamed at him. “Thank you. And now… _for queen and country_.” 

“Oh, lord. Not you, too,” he said with a droll look. 

And she laughed and stood on tiptoe for one more kiss.

 

*     

 

The assignment had taken somewhat longer than Mycroft had anticipated, and there had been a difficult moment or two. And yet, here he was, back in London, the work successfully completed and his person unscathed, save for the cut on his shoulder that had resulted in a few stitches, and bruised knuckles that were still a painful reminder of near disaster. 

His spiritual well-being was another matter. 

He had worried about Molly almost from the moment of driving away from Baker Street, a nagging in the back of his mind that would not be silenced. Additionally, over the successive two and a half weeks, this concern was augmented with flashes of memory, erotic and otherwise, and the oft-repeated thought that “Molly would like this!” at appropriate (or even _in_ appropriate) moments. In short, he had missed her damnably. 

He had considered whether or not this division of his mental powers had impaired his ability to carry out his assignment in an efficient manner. Mycroft had said it would take a fortnight and Mycroft was never wrong. But on the journey home Sherlock had taken the time to examine this question in unsparing detail and had come to the conclusion that it was not the case. There were elements of which even Mycroft’s sources had been unaware. Improvisation had been called for, and not a little cunning, and he had had no difficulty in summoning the necessary mental and physical powers needed to achieve success. 

In short, love had not rendered him a useless fool. 

And he did love her, he thought, as the cab carried him homeward in the dusk of a warm May evening. He found himself anticipating her joy at his return. Envisioning her concern when she was made aware of his hurts. Only she would see that wound on his shoulder, hidden as it was by layers of clothing. Her hands would be gentle in changing the dressing for him, and the subsequent kisses she would no doubt place there, and on his bruised hand -- _and_ on his eager lips -- would go far in easing his pain. 

With these thoughts in mind he eagerly entered the house ten minutes later, and he could not refrain from immediately calling up the stairwell, “Molly, I’m home!” 

There was no reply from above -- indeed, it was oddly silent in the house -- but then there was a rustle and the sound of footsteps from 221A, Mrs. Hudson’s suite of rooms, and her door opened and she was there, a look of concern on her face. 

“Sherlock!” she exclaimed. “Oh, dear! And Molly not yet returned!” 

“She’s gone out?” he asked, disappointed. 

“She… she’s gone to Yorkshire, Sherlock. With Lucinda. Indeed, I was a little surprised when she told me she had decided to accompany the girl. But she wanted to see for herself that Lucinda would be safely settled with her father. She left three days after you, the morning after her end-of-term celebration. Oh, that was a lovely night! Mycroft and your parents insisted on taking us all to the Connaught for the most beautiful supper! John and Mary Watson, too, and even Archie was invited.” 

“Mrs. Hudson,” said Sherlock sharply, “Do you tell me my wife has been gone on a two hundred mile journey  with only that wretched kitchen maid for a companion and has been gone for the last fortnight?” 

Mrs. Hudson looked distressed again. “I’m afraid so. She… she said you wouldn’t mind, and that she’d be back presently, and that she’d left a note for you just in case -- well, she did, too, for I saw it on your mantlepiece when I was up there dusting the other day. I did think she would be back by now, but perhaps--” 

“My God,” Sherlock muttered, and bounded up the stairs. 

He dropped his bag by the door and went swiftly to the mantle over the cold grate where the note leaned against the frame of the mirror. He snatched it up, carefully broke the seal, and quickly read the closely written and tellingly tear-stained missive. :

 

 

> _My Dearest, Dearest Husband, _
> 
> _I fear you will call the salutation above a black lie, too, when you know of the deception I have practiced upon you these many months. It breaks my heart to write it, but I cannot leave London without telling you the whole truth._
> 
> _Lucinda was not one of the girls from the Brooks-Henley Institute as I allowed you to assume. I was offered a third venue for community service, the very establishment which you so firmly proscribed the night of our return from Italy: Madame Celeste’s in Bennet Street. It was there that I met Lucinda._
> 
> _It was true that Lucinda had been ill-used by her father, and had come to London to apply for a position as a lady’s companion. She was unable to procure work at any level of service at all, however, due to her youth and lack of experience. Her funds were almost entirely depleted when one of Madame’s girls befriended her and brought her to stay with them in Bennet Street. _
> 
> _Lucinda has assured me she was adamant in rejecting Madame’s suggestion that she take work in the upper rooms. But one evening she saw and then met one of Madame’s prospective clients, a young gentleman and first time visitor named Bertram,  with whom she fell almost instantly in love. Her resolve to preserve her maidenhood vanished and she determined that she would give herself to him, body and soul.  Lucinda says he is extremely handsome, and most considerate and sensitive -- he writes poetry, and hopes that one day his works will be published and bring him sufficient income to allow him to live independently. I believe he may be a younger son of some good family, for Lucinda allowed me to read the letter of parting that Bertram wrote to her when, after six weeks, Bertram’s father discovered their affair and threatened to disinherit him._
> 
> _I found Lucinda sitting on the back stairs at Madame Celeste’s and weeping bitterly, having not only received Bertram’s painful communication, but word from Madame that she must resign herself to accepting the advances of other men if she wished to remain in the house. She quite naturally could not bring herself to do so, and was at wit’s end trying to think what to do, when I remembered Alphonse’s need for an assistant in the kitchen. We applied to Madame, who was not pleased but ultimately gave her consent for Lucinda to come home with me._
> 
> _Unfortunately, it was little more than two weeks later when we became aware that Lucinda was with child._
> 
> _I realized that I would have to tell you the whole, but our lives have been so busy these last seven months, and Lucinda was in such glowing health, after her morning sickness abated, and her condition so easily disguised beneath the apron she affected in her work with Alphonse. To my shame, I kept creating excuse after excuse to delay the inevitable, for I knew you would be very angry._
> 
> _And so you were, my heart, though I daresay you will be far angrier when next I see you._
> 
> _I expect Alphonse told you of Lucinda’s condition, when he finally noticed, but I cannot fault him for doing so. Indeed, I think he had a fondness for Lucinda, for she worked very hard and had considerable aptitude for cookery, which pleased him. In fact, it is that circumstance which gives me hope that she will now be able to find work enough to support herself and her baby. Kitchen maids who have apprenticed under chefs trained at Le Cordon Bleu are few and far between, even in London, and in the town where I hope to help her settle they are rare birds indeed. She may even be able to find work as a cook or sous chef, though I believe it is not usual for a woman to be employed in the latter post._
> 
> _But first she must have a safe place to give birth and recover. Fortunately, I know of a place that has these qualities in abundance, and it is there that I am taking Lucinda, not to her father in Yorkshire. From the things she has related, I believe she might be putting her life and that of her child at risk if she returned to her father now. My dear, he beat her merely for accepting an innocent kiss from a lad they had both known for years. It is frightening to imagine what might befall her should she return to him an unwed expectant mother. It may be that someday they will be reconciled, but at this moment there are two lives to protect._
> 
> _I beg you will not be concerned at my absence. I assure you that the place to which we are going will be a haven for both Lucinda and myself. The baby will be born in about a month, and after she recovers and is settled I will return to you and accept whatever fate you decree._
> 
> _I know you must be very disappointed that I am not the wife you thought I was when you married me. I have no excuse. It seemed a little thing, at first, to deceive you about Madame Celeste’s, and indeed I learned a great deal there, about the ailments peculiar to women, about the lives of all the residents, about the ways in which Madame’s kindness is usually tied in some way to her financial interests. You must not think I blame her. But perhaps I understand now why you thought it not a fit place for me to visit. Innocence lost can never be regained._
> 
> _But I cannot regret the other things I learned, the many ways great and small that served to increase your pleasure when we made love. I told Madame how heavenly was our wedding night, thanks to her kind offices, but I promise you I never told her anything about the results of my newfound knowledge as they unfolded over the last seven months. The memory of those nights that brought you to such heights of pleasure and sweet release will always be a comfort to me, even if we are destined to part. I will always especially treasure the night before you left for France, when your anger and my worry and sorrow were swept away in that veritable storm of passion._
> 
> _My darling husband, I’ve spent hours composing this message to you, and dawn now approaches. Lucinda and I must away before long. My heart aches to know that it may be months before I see you again, though I am well aware that when we next meet you are not likely to smile upon me as has been your wont and the source of the greatest happiness life could offer me. But your anger is justified. You are the best of men, and you deserve so much more than I have been able to give you, wicked creature that I am._
> 
> _Please think of me fondly sometimes, my heart._
> 
> _For better or worse, I am, as always, your own,_
> 
> _**Molly** _

 

Sherlock, finishing the letter, stumbled over and sat blindly in his chair, barely able to organize his thoughts. 

“What does it say?” came a hesitant voice from the doorway. 

Mrs. Hudson. 

“She’s gone,” he said, stupidly. “I don’t know where. Not to Yorkshire, that’s certain.” 

“Oh, Sherlock!” Mrs. Hudson grieved, for she, too, had loved Molly from the first. 

My God, what was he to do? 

He got to his feet, suddenly unable to sit still. Went over to the window, and stared out at the shadowed street. 

He _had_ to find her, to ensure her safety; to reassure that she was loved. That was the thought that surfaced hard and true amid the morass of his pain and confusion. 

He almost laughed at the thought that she called herself _wicked_. Ridiculous chit. She still had no idea what true wickedness was, even after months of deceit, months of observing the inner workings of one of Europe’s most notorious brothels. 

He took a deep breath and turned back to Mrs. Hudson, who looked very worried. 

“I have to find her,” he said, simply. 

“But where could she have gone? She left no clue?” 

Sherlock frowned. “Somewhere safe, she said. A haven.” 

Mrs. Hudson asked, “Would the Watsons know, do you think? She’s become good friends with Mary in the last year.” 

“So she has! What time is it?” 

“Only half past nine, but remember, they have a new baby.” 

“Yes. First thing in the morning then. In the meantime--” 

“In the meantime, you must eat, and then get some rest! I gave Alphonse the evening off, so I’ll bring you a tray, just this once.” 

Sherlock laughed at that old refrain. “Just a pot of tea, and something cold, if you please, Mrs. Hudson -- with my thanks. Ah, Molly would be proud of me, recalling the manners I was bred to.” 

“Dear Molly!” Mrs. Hudson exclaimed, a little tearfully, and left the room, snuffling into her embroidered handkerchief. 

“Dear Molly, indeed,” Sherlock agreed to the ambient air. He sat down once again, pulled out his wife’s letter, and began to read it a second time. 


	5. People!

Sherlock was dressed and out the door of 221B by eight the next morning, intending to call upon the Watsons immediately. With two young children in the house they were unlikely to have had the opportunity to linger in bed and he was hopeful that they would not only have information that might lead to Molly’s whereabouts, but would give him some breakfast, and that Watson would take a look at his shoulder, which was giving him some trouble this morning. But the cab that he’d thought he was flagging down turned out to contain an occupant, and not a welcome one. 

“Mycroft!” Sherlock exclaimed, not bothering to conceal his disapprobation as his brother’s tall form emerged from the cab. 

“Sherlock!” Mycroft returned in more or less the same tone. “I was told that you had returned to London last night.” 

“Were you indeed?” Sherlock returned, his annoyance increasing. He knew quite well that his brother kept him under a somewhat casual but informative surveillance, but it never ceased to rankle. “And couldn’t wait to see me, I collect?” 

“Yes, well, I was hoping to discover how you fared in France.” 

“Oh, that.” Sherlock hadn’t given the previous two and a half weeks a thought since he’d discovered his wife’s absence and read her disturbing letter the previous evening. A thought occurred to him. “By the by, speaking of your cursed spies and apparent need to poke your nose into my affairs at every turn, were you aware that Molly has gone out of town?” 

“Why yes. It was my understanding that she left with your permission, to return the wayward Lucinda to the bosom of her family for the impending birth. I had wondered when you were going to dismiss the wench. You certainly took your time about it.” 

“You knew she was with child?” Sherlock asked in surprise. 

“And you did not? Your powers of observation seem to be slipping, brother mine.” 

Sherlock ground his teeth a bit, then snapped, “Come upstairs, we can’t stand here speaking of such things in the street.” 

“Very well. And perhaps we might take a moment to discuss your recent holiday in France as well.” 

“Yes, alright.” Sherlock held the door open for his bothersome sibling. 

Mycroft walked in with his usual quiet dignity. “Is Alphonse here? A little breakfast certainly would not come amiss.” 

“That’s why you came so early, isn’t it?” Sherlock sneered as he closed the door, but he nonetheless immediately  strode down the hallway to the kitchen. 

He found Alphonse perched upon a tall stool at the table, reading a newspaper, and sipping from a very small cup of coffee. The chef looked up, quite prepared to be outraged at the intrusion, but his expression eased considerably when he saw that it was the source of many a generous douceur who’d invaded his lair. 

“Monsieur Holmes! You are returned!” 

“As you see. And my brother is now here as well, demanding breakfast.” 

Alphonse set down his cup. “I will bring a tray up _à l'instant!_ ” 

“You have my thanks. Oh, and Alphonse?” 

“ _Oui, monsieur_?” 

Sherlock hesitated, then said carefully, “My wife… er… Madame Holmes… she didn’t happen to speak to you about her plan to go out of town?” 

“But _no!_ ! I did not learn of it until after she and Lucinda had departed. I did wonder that you were well with such a scheme. It would not be considered at all _convenable_ in France. Madame may be a married woman, but still she seems to me very much _la_ _jeune fille._ And that Lucinda -- _bah!_ She has no more sense than _un navet!_ But women in England are given such license. _Incroyable!_ ” 

Sherlock opened his mouth at this impertinent speech, but then shut it again. Finally he said, “Never mind. Just bring some breakfast up, quick as you can.” 

Alphonse bowed, a lingering look of concern in his black eyes. 

The encounter did nothing to lighten Sherlock’s mood. 

Mycroft was seated in Dr. Watson’s old chair by the grate. 

“Alphonse will be up with our breakfast presently,” said Sherlock. “Now what did you want to know about France? It went off perfectly well, in spite of a few unforeseen complications.” 

Mycroft asked a number of penetrating questions, and Sherlock’s distracting wifely worries were momentarily set aside as he replied at length. However, they were nearly at the end of the debriefing when Alphonse appeared with a laden tray, and after the chef had arranged all on the little dining table and taken his leave, Sherlock’s thoughts once again turned to his errant spouse. 

After mechanically eating half of his Buttered Eggs, ham, and toast in relative silence, he suddenly asked Mycroft, “You knew she was frequenting Celeste’s?” 

“Yes. Part of the community service required by her school, I take it. She was observed with an adviser, and one or two other students, most of the time.” 

“ _Most_ of the time?” 

“Yes.” Mycroft frowned. “Sherlock, what has been transpiring in your marriage? From the way you speak you seem to have been unaware of her movements.” 

Sherlock said, warily, “I knew she was doing community service.” 

Mycroft lifted a brow. “But not, perhaps, at Madame Celeste’s establishment?” 

Sherlock hesitated, then said angrily, “No.” His brother waited expectantly. Sherlock sighed. “I had told her that I did not think it fitting that she visit Celeste. It was something we had originally spoken of the day after our wedding, but after our return from Italy I told her I’d thought better of the plan.” 

Mycroft stared, and then slowly smiled. He said, teasingly, “I take it the wedding night went well.” 

Sherlock felt himself flushing, and inwardly damned his brother’s perspicacity. 

But then Mycroft shrugged. “What’s sauce for the goose should by rights be sauce for the gander. Is that why she disobeyed your decree?” 

“So I am led to believe. Well,” he said, with a bitter laugh, “I have direct evidence of it. But it was only one of three organizations she visited as a student of the medical school. I assumed that wretched girl Lucinda was from some girls’ institute to which Molly was also assigned.” 

“Ah. And once begun, Molly would have found it difficult to end the deception with another’s welfare at stake.” 

“Are you taking her side?” demanded Sherlock. 

“Not at all,” Mycroft replied. “I’m merely stating the facts as I see them. But you, brother mine, need to keep a much closer eye on your bride. She is no Milk-and-Water Miss, nor is she a saint, as you seem to have assumed.” 

“I never assumed any such thing!” Molly’s spirit and independence had been evident from the start -- and yet, she was a good little thing, too, biddable in many ways -- as long as her wishes and opinions aligned with one’s own. Which fortunately they did, most of the time. 

Mycroft said, “Well, I expect once she is returned you will know better how to go on. Where is she? Did she say in her letter?” 

“How did you know there was a letter?” 

“There is _always_ a letter, Sherlock. You will note that I do not go so far as to call my sister-in-law a cozening little slyboots in want of a sound thrashing; I presume that her motives have been pure from the outset -- or relatively so -- and that she merely strayed more and more from the straight path. But above all, she loves you to distraction -- it’s been quite obvious these many months -- and she would not leave in this way without giving you some word of reassurance.” 

Sherlock gave a snort that was only vaguely reminiscent of laughter. “She says she has gone to some haven. An old friend, I take it, but there is not the least clue as to who or where. I was on my way to ask the Watsons if they had any notion of where she might have gone when you arrived.” 

“The Watsons. Yes. It’s possible she’s confided in Mary. And the good doctor has known her since she was a child.” 

Sherlock shoved his chair back and stood up. “I must go,” he said, abruptly. “You can see your way out.” 

Mycroft nodded calmly, and as Sherlock fetched his coat and hat, mused, “I believe I’ll have another slice of toast before I go, and more of this perfectly brewed coffee. Alphonse really is a treasure. But Sherlock, if the Watsons fail to come up with the answer to the riddle, you may need to steel yourself and make the journey to Bath.” 

“Good God,” Sherlock groaned, realizing this was true. No one would be more aware of who might qualify as a haven than Molly’s execrable family: the boorish solicitor who was now Sherlock’s brother-in-law; the sister who’d done her best to frighten Molly and spoil their wedding night; her ridiculous mother; and the four children, the oldest only seven years of age -- hopefully all of them still imprisoned in the nursery. 

Mycroft spoke again, amused. “I feel your pain, brother. And remember, you must be discreet: the mother and sister have proven to be the most unconscionable gossips in the past, and if they learn that Molly has misbehaved in such a way I shudder to think what the consequences might be. You were, if you will remember, forced to marry because of their loose tongues and the sharp ears of the trustees at Molly’s school.” 

“ _Forced to marry_ ,” Sherlock repeated, examining the words. Then he looked up at Mycroft. “And even now it seems the best work of my life.” And he tipped his hat to his brother (not _entirely_ in mockery) and, without further ado, strode out the door.

 

*

 

Dr. Watson’s disapproval was patent. 

“Then she did _not_ journey to Yorkshire with your permission as Mrs. Hudson informed us! I must say that I am relieved in one respect: I had thought you must have taken leave of your senses, allowing her to embark upon such a journey with only that young kitchen maid to accompany her. But that Molly should leave for a destination entirely unknown in this way, lying to Mrs. Hudson--” 

“She did not lie, precisely,” Sherlock objected. “She merely said I would not mind her accompanying Lucinda, and that might very likely have been the case, provided her assertion that their destination was one of safety is proven accurate.” 

“Holmes, don’t be absurd,” Watson said impatiently. “Molly has done very wrong in leaving you in the dark like this, very wrong indeed. I fear I am much to blame.” 

“You!” Sherlock stared. “How on earth are _you_ to blame?” 

“It was I who introduced her into your household! She had always seemed to me a most well-behaved girl, demure, conformable -- well, save for her determination to pursue a medical career, which, though admirable in some ways, is decidedly eccentric for a gently reared female. But obviously I was mistaken. Little did I suspect--” 

“Watson,” Sherlock said, a warning in his voice, “I advise you to keep your criticism of my wife to yourself if you do not wish to fall out with me. Molly has, perhaps, surprised us both in this instance, but I assure you my attachment to her is unimpaired and I only wish to determine her location so that I can be reassured of her safety. Will you cast your memory back and tell me if you know of some old friend who would offer her refuge?” 

“ _Refuge!_ What _refuge_ should she need other than the home you have provided for her?” Watson narrowed his eyes. “There is more to this tale than the little you have shared with me, I’ll be bound.” 

Sherlock sighed and glanced over at Mary, who was seated by the fire nursing Edward. He was somewhat startled when she looked up at him with raised brows and speaking blue eyes. 

She then said to her husband, “John, would you be so kind as to go upstairs and fetch my shawl?. It’s a bit chilly in here today, even so near the fire!” 

“Of course, my dear,” said John, and immediately left the room. 

Sherlock went swiftly over and sat down near Mary.

 She said quietly, “I know about Lucinda, and about Madame Celeste’s, but no more than that. Molly did not confide to me her plan to leave London. I do know that she came to deeply regret the deception -- that what had, at first, seemed mere mischief had become such a complicated imbroglio. I think if it hadn’t been for Lucinda’s situation she would have confessed the whole to you months ago.” 

“I daresay. I did get that impression from her letter. If only she had shared her destination with me I would be…. not _content_. But certainly less anxious.” 

“I know,” Mary smiled sympathetically, then looked up at the sound of John’s footsteps coming back down the stairs. “Do not tell John! He will only believe she is entirely lost to depravity and you and I know that is not at all the case.” 

Sherlock smiled grimly and squeezed her hand, then stood up as John came back into the room. 

“Here you are, my dear,” the doctor said, going to his wife and arranging the shawl around her shoulders. But then he straightened and addressed Sherlock. “I have thought of one person to whom Molly may have applied: her old governess. But I’ve had no success in recalling the woman’s name -- Beacham? Bingly? No. I never had much to do with her when I was living with the Hoopers in my time as a medical student. And I know she retired after Molly left the schoolroom, but I doubt I was ever told where she settled.” 

Sherlock sighed. “That information is certainly a help, but I see that I will not now be able to avoid a visit to Bath and Molly’s family.” 

John gave a bark of laughter. “Well, if the rest of this affair has not earned Molly a severe reprimand from you, that necessity surely will do so!” 

“You may be right,” Sherlock murmured, and met Mary’s laughing eyes for a moment before he took his leave.

 

*    

 

Two days later, at approximately eight o’clock in the morning, Sherlock woke in his hotel room at the Royal George (“... _conveniently situated in the heart of the historic City of Bath in Somerset_ …”) and was immediately assaulted with two dismal facts: it was still pouring rain, as it had been for the last thirty-six hours; and he had failed in his mission to pry from his in-laws the information he was so very anxious to acquire. 

It was not entirely his fault. 

He had, on the train, come up with a not altogether unreasonable premise as to why Molly had left him so precipitately and with such cryptic clues about her destination. _Quite worn down by the end of her third year of medical school;  left a loving note but absurdly forgot to include the name and direction of the friend she meant to visit; exigencies of life in London, combined with the herculean effort needed to achieve top marks had, perhaps, turned her brain a little._ (He had smiled wickedly at that last element, she would be mad as fire that he’d told her family such a thing.) 

But it hadn’t worked, and for two reasons: 1) the Cavanaughs’ butler, who had (probably quite deliberately) allowed Sherlock to walk in on a family scene that was akin to something out of Drury Lane-- or Bedlam (antique vase shatters; obviously culpable progeny deny involvement; livid father bent on retribution; vociferous mother and grandmother vigorously opposed to same); and 2) his mother-in-law’s rather shrewd but nonetheless nonsensical mistrust of his veracity. To be sure, she had been virtually prostrated by the threat that still overshadowed her grandchildren ( _I’ll see to you later, all four of you!_ , Cavanaugh had roared as the nanny bundled the sobbing urchins out and back to the nursery), but to accuse Sherlock of being _just as bad as James_ was the outside of enough. 

“If Molly has gone mad I have no doubt the blame lies at your door!” she had exclaimed with quavering vehemence. “Philomena, I forbid you to tell him anything at all! And you may do your worst, Mr. Holmes, but my lips are sealed. _Sealed , I tell you!_” And then she had fallen into strong hysterics and was subsequently escorted from the room by her daughter. 

Which had left Sherlock alone with Cavanaugh. 

His brother-in-law had looked him up and down. “So she’s left you, eh? Hah! Not so easy being a married man, is it Holmes? But you’ve made your bed and now you must lie in it.” 

Sherlock had replied acidly, “It is my fondest wish to be able to do just that!” 

But Cavanaugh had sniffed. “ _I_ don’t know her old governess, never paid attention. Thought she’d inherited, though, and moved away, little place in Sussex, or Winchester; some place near the coast. But that was years ago. Can’t be expected to remember such trivia after all this time.” 

Sherlock had barely refrained from giving an impatient roll of his eyes. “I shall leave you, Cavanaugh. My sympathy to your children: it is once again all too apparent that they have much to overcome.” 

“And what the devil do you mean by that?” Cavanaugh had demanded, but Sherlock had ignored his blustering and strode out the door, aware that family harmony would hardly be promoted by another turn-up with the man who was now his brother-in-law -- the black eye and broken nose Sherlock had given him more than a year before seemed to have taught him nothing. 

No, the failure of this vital mission had not been entirely his fault. Nonetheless, it had failed, and he now feared he might be facing weeks, if not months, without his wife, a prospect which he found to be insupportable. 

It was in an uncharacteristically despondent mood, therefore, that he rose from the bed and set about preparing to depart a city that had, for all its historic beauty, one fatal flaw: the Cavanaugh family. 

Still, as he washed, shaved, and dressed, he noticed that the rain was letting up at last, and as he finished packing his bag for the journey home, golden sunshine broke out and came streaming through the window. Finally, when he had picked up his bag and was about to depart, there came a knock on the door. 

He opened the door to find his sister-in-law standing composedly before him. 

She smiled. “Hello, Sherlock. May I come in?” 

Sherlock, a thrill of hope leaping within his bosom, nevertheless said, “I’m not sure that would be wise, ma’am. Will you come down to the breakfast room with me?” 

“Oh! Yes. Very well. I suppose visiting you here, in your hotel room would hardly be discreet.” 

“I expect your husband would think it most improper, should he be informed of it,” Sherlock said dryly. 

But Philomena only chuckled at that idea. 

A very few minutes later, the two of them were seated in a quiet corner of the breakfast room of the hotel, and had put in an order for coffee and breakfast for Sherlock -- “...for I had porridge with the children not an hour ago,” Philomena had said, blithely, causing Sherlock to shudder within. 

A discussion of the weather ensued, until the coffee was brought to the table. Then, as he poured out a cup for each of them, Sherlock said, “Now, what can I do for you, Philomena?” 

“It is more what I can do for you.” she said. “I believe my mother was mistaken about you, and I also believe she will come to admit that soon enough. That being the case, I will be so bold as to ignore her demand that I keep from you the information that may be so vital to your interests. But tell me first, is Molly in some kind of trouble?” 

Sherlock replied, hesitantly, “I fear you have guessed correctly. Yet the details of the affair have not been shared with anyone else at this point, and I am determined to keep it that way if at all possible. I can assure you, however, that she did not leave me in this way due to any animosity toward me or any perceived threat to herself. She did it to protect another from forces that she felt might have proved harmful. You must believe me when I tell you that I only want to see that she is safe, and help her in any way I can.” 

Philomena nodded. “You know, when we visited you in Baker Street last Christmas, and in the few letters she has written to me since you married, Molly… well, she did not _confide_ in me, precisely -- sadly we do not communicate upon such terms -- _implied_ , perhaps, is a better word. Implied repeatedly. That her life with you has been little short of paradise in every respect, and that you were a paragon among men. It has been difficult for me to fathom, since my own experience of marriage has been very different. James is a good man, and I do love him, but… well, I believe our relationship is far more prosaic than the one Molly enjoys with you. I cannot help but be a little envious, but I assure you I am also deeply happy for you both. Sherlock, I do trust that you will be able to untangle this difficulty and return Molly -- and yourself, I now collect? -- to that state of bliss the two of you have, until recently, enjoyed.” 

Sherlock gave a crooked smile. “I am certain I will be able to smooth things over, if only I can find her. As for that state of bliss… I can only promise to do my best.” 

Philomena returned his smile warmly. “It is very well. So. Our governess was Miss Emily Beaufort, and she now lives in Bognor Regis, on a small property she inherited shortly before Molly left the schoolroom. Both Molly and I maintain a regular correspondence with her, and I am certain that Miss Beaufort would welcome a visit from Molly. She has many times reiterated to Molly, and to myself, her kind invitation to holiday with her.” 

As this speech concluded, and Sherlock’s tension ebbed in a way that almost left him reeling, breakfast arrived on a laden trolley. Sherlock maintained his usual facade of equanimity as it was arranged on the table, yet it was in a state of considerable elation that he began to engulf bacon, eggs, and several pieces of toast spread with butter and marmalade. Philomena indulged herself with a warm scone spread with clotted cream and raspberry jam, and had a second cup of coffee, “... for I have a great deal of shopping to catch up on, now that the weather is finally clearing. Sherlock, I do not presume to tell you your business, but indeed, it is unhealthy to eat so quickly, and in such large bites. You will not arrive in London any sooner for your haste.” 

“Yes, sister,” he said wryly. 

She gave him a prim smile. 

Twenty minutes later, they were standing outside the door of the hotel, and Sherlock took his sister-in-law’s hand in his. “A good day’s work, Mena, I promise you.” 

“I am counting on it,” Philomena said, and gave his hand a squeeze. “Give Molly my love, if you please, and tell her she is a very lucky girl.” 

And Sherlock laughed, his heart light.

 

*

 

A few hours later, after a swift train ride through the rain-washed countryside and a very slow cab ride through the congested London streets, Sherlock walked through the door of 221B Baker Street to be greeted exuberantly by Archie. 

“Hello, Mr. Holmes!” 

Sherlock could not help but be pleased. “Hello, Archie! Are you returned from your aunt’s? How did you fare?” 

“Pretty well, but I’m glad to be home,” Archie said with a cheeky grin. “But Mr. Holmes, there’s a gentleman upstairs to see you. Mrs. Hudson put him in your parlor and took some tea up to him. She said you’d be wishful to see him as soon as you arrived.” 

“Indeed? How long has he been up there?” Sherlock said with a frown. 

“Couple of hours, but I’ve been keeping an eye on him, off and on. Mrs. Hudson told him you’d be here by half past two if you was coming at all today.” 

“ _Were_ coming at all,” Sherlock corrected, absently. 

“Oh, yes. May I take your bag up, Mr. Holmes?” 

“No, I’ll do it. If Alphonse is in, tell him I’d like some lunch, if you please.” 

“Right away, Mr. Holmes,” Archie said, and skipped down the hallway while Sherlock climbed the stairs. 

But as he reached the top of the stairs, a tall, thin figure emerged from the open doorway of his flat and spoke: “Are you Mr. Sherlock Holmes?” 

“I am,” said Sherlock, gaining the landing and giving the man a swift appraisal. He was fashionably attired and quite young, perhaps his early twenties, and darkly handsome, though just now his countenance was pallid, his expression gravely troubled. “What can I do for you, Mr….” 

“Ashworth,” the young man supplied. “I am Bertram Ashworth, and I understand that you may know where I might find my… my intended wife.” 

“ _Bertram!_ ” Sherlock repeated. “And _Ashworth_ \-- are you Lord Ashworth’s son?” 

“H-his fourth son,” Bertram replied. 

“And are you… when you speak of your _intended wife_ , can you be referring to Lucinda?” 

“Yes! I… oh, Mr. Holmes, if you will but allow me to explain!” 

“Certainly I will, Mr. Ashworth. Come in, come in! I have ordered a late luncheon to be brought up, and we will eat while you tell me your story. You will forgive me for saying so, but you look as though you would benefit from some sustenance.” 


	6. Fresh Air

Bognor Regis, on the coast of the county of West Sussex, was ordinarily a quiet little seaside resort, its citizens genteel and set in their ways, the air sea-fresh, the tone uniformly peaceful -- though not on one fine, warm day in May when the carriage that had been hired and was driven by Sherlock Holmes, accompanied by the Honorable Bertram Ashworth, turned a blind corner and shockingly locked wheels with another vehicle traveling in the opposite direction. 

The horses reared and snorted, and the occupant of the second carriage pulled back on his reins, shouting, “Blast you, if you’ve damaged my carriage I’ll take it out of your hide, young man!”  He was a large, bearded gentleman whose age, grim aspect, and conservative suit of clothing might (and did) reveal the nature of his profession to an observant man. 

“You are the doctor of the town?” Sherlock demanded, handing his own reins to Ashworth. Sherlock hopped down and went to his horse’s head. 

“I am, and I’m in a hurry just now, so if you’ll be so kind as to extricate your carriage from my own I’ll be on my way.” 

Sherlock backed his horse, but as he did so he asked, “Might I inquire if you happen to know a Miss Emily Beaufort, sir? I’d be grateful for any information you might be able to give me of her direction.” 

But at this the doctor stared. “And what do you want with Miss Beaufort?” he demanded warily. 

Having freed the carriages, which by good fortune were only a little scratched but otherwise undamaged, Sherlock walked over to the doctor. “I have reason to believe my wife is paying Miss Beaufort a visit. Miss Beaufort was my wife’s governess at one time, and they have maintained an epistolary relationship in the years since Molly left the schoolroom.” 

“Molly? Molly Hooper, is it?” 

Sherlock felt strangely cold at these words, but replied as steadily as he could, “She may be using her maiden name of Hooper, yes, but she is my wife, Mrs. Molly Holmes. You know her?” 

The doctor eyed Sherlock with evident disapproval, then did the same for Ashworth, who was still goggling from the carriage. The doctor ignored Sherlock’s question and demanded with a jerk of his chin,  “Who is your companion?” 

But Ashworth himself spoke, quavering, “I am Bertram Ashworth and I’m looking for _my_ wife, too -- she… she may be calling herself Miss Copperthwaite. Sir, if you have seen her, I beg of you—“ 

“Wife?” the doctor said sharply. “Your _wife?_ ” And from his expression it was obvious he knew the truth of the matter. 

Ashworth flushed, but said, “She soon will be, upon my honor.” 

The doctor gave a humorless laugh. “Your _honor_ , eh? It seems to me your _honor_ should be horsewhipped! But I’ve no time now, and I don’t suppose it’s my place, though I’m a father of three girls myself and… well… I’ll tell you this: if all goes as it should, Miss Copperthwaite will be a mother before the day’s out, long before she’s your wife or anyone else’s, more’s the pity. I’m on my way to attend her, for they have sent word of some difficulty.” 

“Difficulty! Oh, God!” Ashworth exclaimed, his shamed flush fading to an unhealthy grey. 

“There’s no need to worry just yet,” the doctor said, a little more kindly. “It’s her first, and I told them they might need to send word if the child didn’t shift his position.” 

“It’s a boy?” Ashworth exclaimed, almost in a squeak. 

“How should I know? It’s just my way of speaking. But I suppose you had better come along, since you’re the scoundrel that brought her to bed. And you!” The doctor turned back to Sherlock. “Mr. Holmes? Well, I don’t know why your lady wife chooses to revert to her maiden name, but she’s a good little thing, probably worth ten of you and if I find you abusing her in any way I’ll throw you out on your ear -- and don’t think I won’t do it!” 

Sherlock couldn’t help giving a grim smile. “Sir, if you knew the whole story… but rest assured, there is no cause to be concerned. I’d sooner cut my own throat than _abuse_ her, and my fondest wish at this moment is to be reunited with her once more. Pray lead the way!”

 

*****

 

Miss Emily Beaufort’s home was located nearly two miles inland from the town, in an isolated, yet idyllic setting as Sherlock could see as the two carriages finally closed on their destination. Yet, as they pulled up against the white, rose-bedecked picket fence that enclosed the front garden, Sherlock was momentarily disconcerted to hear an almost inhuman cry issue from one of the windows in the house’s upper story which was standing open to allow entry to any passing breeze, cooling or not, so close had the day now become. Realizing who must have made that sound and in what circumstances, Sherlock turned quickly to his companion. Young Ashworth was staring up at the window, white as a sheet, and uttered in despairing tones, “ _Lucinda!"_  

The doctor seemed composed enough, however, and began to calmly descend from his carriage. But as Sherlock followed suit, he saw a figure burst out of the door of the house. 

_Molly!_  

She halted in surprise for a moment, and then gave a joyous shout that made his heart leap: “ _Sherlock!_ ” She picked up her skirts, and flew down the steps. 

Sherlock strode through the open gate, almost overset at the sight of his wife running eagerly toward him. He opened his arms to receive her, grinning like a fool, and caught her against him, his heart thudding, his throat tight. 

“Sherlock!” she uttered again in a constricted voice. 

“Molly!” he returned, with deep satisfaction. “Oh my God. You little _wretch_.” 

She lifted her face to his, her eyes swimming with tears. “Kiss me immediately!” she demanded. 

He did, quick and hard, then said unsteadily, “Ah! How can I help but love you? But by God, Molly, I should put you over my knee and make you sore as bedamned for leading me such a dance!”  The embers of his wrath suddenly flaring to life, he took her by the shoulders and gave her a little shake. “Practicing upon me in such a way -- _and_ I’ve had to endure lectures from Mycroft, Watson, and even Alphonse for permitting it, as well as being forced to travel to Bath and apply to your family for Miss Beaufort’s direction.” 

She gasped. “You went to Bath? Oh, Sherlock, what did you tell my mother and sister?” 

“Barely anything -- only enough to get the information I needed to find you. _And_ I managed to refrain from assaulting Cavanaugh.” 

“Oh, how truly heroic!” she exclaimed. And then she said, contritely, but with a spark of mischief (for she knew him too well), “Oh, my dear, I’m so very sorry to have brought such trouble upon you, and I quite understand your desire to… to exact retribution -- entirely _justified_ retribution, I fear -- and of course, I _have_ in the last few months heard that certain men find such pursuits most strangely stimulating. But indeed, husband, I beg--.” 

“ _You,_ wife, are an impertinent _baggage!_ ” he said with all the asperity he could muster, “and you may consider yourself extremely fortunate that I am _not_ one of those _certain men_. But by God, Madame Celeste has much to answer for when we get back to London.” 

“Oh, no!” Molly protested, now genuinely dismayed. “Please don’t take her to task! It was entirely my fault. My horrid curiosity -- and… and my excessive love of you, too, of course.” 

He pulled her close and kissed her again, but then said, “As if that is an excuse for deceiving me for months.” 

Abashed, she reddened, and had some difficulty meeting his gaze. “I know. And I promise that I will never lie to you again! Or… I mean… I’ll tell you _everything_ , for I never did precisely _tell_ you a lie.” 

“Such quibbling!” he tsked. “My love, you may not always be able to keep such a promise, but in future I do hope that you will feel you can be honest with me, and trust me more.” 

Her eyes filled with tears, and she hugged him fiercely. ”Oh Sherlock! I do love you so!” 

“I know you do. I love you, too, Molly. With all my heart.” He kissed the top of her head, then fished a clean handkerchief from his pocket for her. As she straightened and took it from him, he asked, “How is Lucinda doing?” 

She wiped her wet cheeks and quickly blew her nose, then said, “She is in some distress as the baby is not positioned correctly and must be turned, if possible. That’s why we sent for the doctor.” And just then another wail came from above and Molly started, exclaiming, “Oh! Oh dear, I must go to her!” 

But at that moment, Mr. Ashworth stumbled from the carriage. 

“Molly,” said Sherlock to his startled wife, “this is the father, the Honorable Bertram Ashworth. He has acquired a small inheritance since last seeing Lucinda, as well as two hundred pounds through the publication of a number of his poems, and he says he means to live up to his thus far undeserved honorific by marrying the mother of his child, if she can but succeed in surviving the ordeal before her.” 

Molly, far from showing any sign of spite, rounded on Ashworth and gripped his limp hand with both of hers and shook it vigorously. “How do you do! Oh, this is most fortunate, I cannot conceive of anything more encouraging for Lucy in her hour of need. You must come up to her -- Doctor Harrington, you will permit Lucy’s young man to attend her? It seems they are to be married as soon as may be contrived!” 

The doctor, who had retrieved his bag from the carriage and was coming toward their group, looked doubtfully at Ashworth. “Well, it’s far from usual, and it’s for the patient to decide whether she wants him there or no.  But I won’t have time to tend to him if he falls over in a faint.” 

“Oh, I’m sure he will not!” said Molly, smiling bracingly up at the trembling Ashworth. Another cry was heard from above and Ashworth looked to the window, swallowing convulsively. But Molly grabbed his hand again and said, “Come, we must make haste. Your presence will reassure her and the doctor will make all right.” And she pulled the terrified young man after her, up the flower-lined path toward the house, the doctor following along after them and shaking his head. 

Sherlock stayed outside in the fresh air, so filled with happiness to be reunited with Molly that he was little disturbed by Lucinda’s distress. Presently her cry was heard again, but this time the words were intelligible: “ _Bertram! Oh, Bertram!_ ” Then the doctor’s gruff tones were heard, barking orders. Things grew somewhat quieter after that, and Sherlock was just beginning to think that he might as well unhitch the carriage horses and give them some food and water -- a small stable lay off to the side of the house -- when a middle aged woman emerged from the door and came down the steps toward him. 

“You are Sherlock Holmes!” she exclaimed with a smile. 

“I am,” he acknowledged. “Are you Miss Beaufort?” 

“Yes, indeed,” she said, and held out her hand. As he took it, she said, “Molly has told me all about you, and I have been most anxious to meet such a paragon of husbandly virtue.”

He gave a short laugh. “It’s possible she may have perjured herself somewhat. She is good enough to overlook my considerable faults.” 

“Oh, no,” said Miss Beaufort. “I don’t think that’s true at all. But she loves you very dearly, in spite of all, and I can see that your attachment to her is in a similar vein.” 

“I…” Sherlock’s voice became oddly constricted, but he pulled himself together. “It’s been a difficult time without her, ma’am,” he said simply. 

“I know. I beg you will forgive her. She has a good heart, but she is a trifle... unconventional? And a little headstrong. It was always so, and this is not the first time she has landed in a scrape because of it. But you will know better how to handle her in future, I daresay.” 

“I very much hope you are correct,” Sherlock said wryly.

 

*****

 

The house had been quieter for some time, though footsteps could be heard, and occasionally voices. Miss Beaufort had brewed him a pot of tea while he’d seen to the horses and then installed him in her formal and very feminine parlor while she went back upstairs. Somewhat later, Molly came running lightly down, dashed in and kissed Sherlock, said, “Thank you for bringing Mr. Ashworth! His presence has given her such _courage!_ She barely cried out at all when the doctor turned the baby into the correct position. Just a little longer now, I think,” and dashed out again to fetch something from the kitchen and disappear up the stairs again. 

It was more than a little longer, but finally, something over an hour later, there seemed to be some sudden commotion, excited voices, exclamations, one terrible, guttural scream from Lucinda that made Sherlock’s hair stand on end, and then, at long last, the sound of a newborn lustily squalling. 

Sherlock slumped down in his chair, muttering, “ _Thank God!_ ” 

After a very few minutes, Mr. Ashworth staggered down the stairs and into the parlor. “It’s a boy!” he told Sherlock, his face deathly. “My son. Oh my God…” And he collapsed onto one of the ornate and uncomfortable side chairs, covering his face with his hands. 

Sherlock got up and went to him, pulling a flask from the inside pocket of his coat. “Here,” he said simply. 

Ashworth looked at the flask, then at Sherlock as though he were some sort of angel of deliverance. He took it in a trembling hand, opened it, and drank half of it off at once. 

Sherlock took it back, took a sip himself, then capped it again and put it back in his pocket. “You don’t want to be jug-bitten when they call you to come back into the room. I presume they’re cleaning up? Is Lucinda well?” 

“Yes! She did marvelously! And there was very little blood, really -- some at the end, when… when her flesh tore…” His color faded again. 

Sherlock could hardly blame him. “The doctor says she’ll be fine though? 

“Y-yes. He said the damage was minimal and she will heal.” 

“And the child?” 

“He’s _very_ well.” Ashworth laughed weakly. “He looks exactly like my father, when he’s in a passion.” 

Sherlock laughed. “Perhaps you should let your father know that. I expect it would go a long way toward reconciling him to your marriage. And Lucinda _is_ gently bred, for all her misfortune in ending up at Celeste’s.” 

Ashworth said, “I cannot count it misfortune. I would never have met her, else.” 

“Very true,” Sherlock agreed, wondering a little at the vagaries of Fate. 

They sat in silence for a few minutes, but then Molly’s footsteps were again heard coming down the stairs, and Sherlock smiled as she came into the room. 

“He’s beautiful!” Molly said, returning his smile with one of her own. 

But Sherlock, rising to go to her, said, “That’s strange. Ashworth says he looks like a choleric old man.” 

Ashworth looked up with a laugh, a healthier color in his face now, and Molly chuckled. 

She said to Ashworth, “Would you like to go back upstairs? Lucinda wishes to see you, now that she and the baby are tidy.” 

Ashworth rose with alacrity and went out of the room. 

Molly turned to Sherlock. “Are you alright?” 

Sherlock gave a short laugh that she should be concerned for _him_ , and he looked her over with a more discerning eye as he approached.  She was very tired, the strain of the last month and particularly of the last twenty-four hours obviously starting to catch up with her. She brushed a wisp of hair back over her ear, and looked up at him, her great brown eyes even more enormous than usual, and the bone structure of her face too prominent. 

He set his hands at her slender waist and frowned. “More to the point, are _you_ alright. You’ve lost weight. Six pounds? Six pounds that you could ill afford, slight as you are. Molly, you have not been taking good care of yourself.” 

“I have tried, but… there were _reasons_.” She reached up to caress his cheek. 

He caught her hand and dragged it over his shoulder, bent and swept her up into his arms, carrying her over to his chair, the one comfortable one in the room, probably Miss Beaufort’s easy chair, set by the tiled hearth. As he sat down again, with Molly in his lap, she curled into him, laying her head against his neck and shoulder. He picked up her other hand, kissed it and held it warm in his own. She sighed, utterly content. 

Presently he ventured to say, as though in jest, “How glad I am that it was Lucinda and that ridiculous Ashworth that were put to the test today, and not you and I. To be frank, my love, I’m not certain I will _ever_ be ready to see you endure such agony.” 

But she had stiffened slightly at these words and now she sat up and looked at him, flushing. “Oh, Sherlock! I… well… you must be _brave_. And you _will_ have eight months to accustom yourself to the idea.” 

He stared at her, his mouth suddenly going dry. 

Molly cocked her head to one side, eyes bright with both joy and sympathy. 

He found himself blurting, “Molly! Don’t tell me…”, but found he could not continue, instinctively drawing back from the utterance of words that would place the staggering disclosure forever beyond denial. 

“I won’t then,” she said gently, and kissed his cheek. Then she settled back down against him and added apologetically, “Though I fear, my love, if all goes as it should, the deduction will soon be quite obvious.”


	7. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the last of it, a couple of hours early. Many thanks to everyone who has been following along, and for your generous kudos and comments! 
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 It was all his mother’s fault, Sherlock thought, as he poured himself another _wee dram_. Carefully. He was seated at the dining room table, but was slumped over it, half lying on the white linen, steadying himself against the solid surface as he concentrated on his task. It was Scotch whiskey, his father’s favorite, thirty years old and obscenely expensive. His mother would murder him if he spilled a drop, she had a streak of frugality in her that seemed more than a bit strange in one born to affluence, and would have no sympathy for him in spite of the fact that his Molly might die. His mother was a cruel and unusual woman, a mathematics scholar in her youth, and she still thought like a bloody machine (though in truth he’d admired that in former days -- how ignorant he’d been). 

His father was more sympathetic. His father was drinking, as well, though with rather more restraint, every sip alternating with worried looks cast in Sherlock’s direction. 

And Mycroft, but he was keeping to wine, sphinxlike as ever, save for the grim set of his jaw and the occasional flicker of eyelids. Not _entirely_ unaffected. 

Mycroft had seen Molly, too, when he’d come up to the room to drag Sherlock away. Had seen how she was suffering, though she’d still been gallantly pacing the room up to that point, only pausing every few minutes to brace herself against him, tense and panting each time a contraction assailed her, though never a sound out of her, not so much as a peep, then still trying to smile up at him as it eased and they’d continue on, back and forth, back and forth, across the vast expanse of thick Turkey carpet, they’d done that for hours today, and the pale sun shining absurdly through the tall windows as though nothing in the world were amiss. 

Molly. 

His Molly. 

Enduring God knew what torture up in the guest room, the most luxurious bedchamber in a house full of luxury, Musgrave Hall, where he had been born, and Mycroft before him, and their sister Eurus after, who had died untimely. An old grief but still raw. 

God, he hated this house. Had hated school as well, with all its _people._  

London was home. London was where his son should have been born.  London was where they should have stayed. 

But they had not. His mother had decreed that 221B Baker Street was no fit place for a lying in, and Molly had (reluctantly, he liked to think) been persuaded to spend the last month at his parents’ country estate. They had arrived just before the holidays -- which had been satisfactory, what with the Watsons joining them for Christmas (how was it little Rosamund and Edward always seemed so much more _agreeable_ than the Cavanaughs’ infant brigade; Molly’s assertion that he barely knew the latter was true enough, but giving them the benefit of the doubt with a father like Cavanaugh? Unlikely.) And Mrs. Hudson had come, too, bringing him several dozen of her exquisite mince tarts and scoffing at his worries. 

“She’ll be _fine!_ ” Hudders had said. “Molly’s young and strong, she’ll come through with flying colors. You’ll see!” 

But just because she was young and strong didn’t mean she wasn’t suffering. 

It didn’t mean she couldn’t die. 

He watched with fascination as a tear rolled down and dropped from the tip of his nose onto the tablecloth, then remembered his mother’s unnatural attachment to the yards of pristine linen and moved his half-full glass over three inches, covering the spot. 

Sat up. Ran a hand through his hair. 

It seemed ages since they’d thrown him out. The midwife had been appalled at his presence from the start, though Molly had made an effort to persuade her of the necessity. But much later, the doctor had been called in, and had joined forces with the midwife and Sherlock’s mother -- _his own mother!_ \-- and had finally convinced Molly that Sherlock should be ejected from the room, would only be in the way. Naturally he had argued, his points not only valid but very reasonably presented, considering the strained circumstances, but Molly had become a little agitated, and finally his mother went to the door and shouted for Mycroft. 

Sherlock had objected to this development in the strongest terms, but his mother had said, “ _Enough_ , Sherlock! You are upsetting your wife, not helping her. Now go downstairs where your obvious apprehension will not be a distraction to her as she labors to bring your child into the world. Mycroft, here! Take your brother away this instant!” 

They were _all_ against him, all but Molly, but as he’d turned to her one last time as he was virtually dragged from the room, even _she_ had given him a look that told him they must bow to the inevitable. Then her expression had suddenly changed to one of agony, the door had closed between them, and he had heard her first cry, faint through the heavy wood. 

Mycroft had gripped his arm before he could rush back in. “No, brother! Let her get through this!” 

And Sherlock had managed to turn away, somehow got down the stairs to the library and sat on the sofa, his head in his hands, just as he’d seen Ashworth do months ago. Though Ashworth had actually witnessed his son’s birth, stayed with his Lucinda in that final hour.   

At some point, Sherlock and Mycroft and their father had moved to the dining room -- as though any of them were hungry. The dishes on the sideboard lay barely touched. And there was no clock. “What time is it?” he suddenly asked hoarsely. 

Mycroft pulled out his watch. “Nearly four.” 

“Two hours,” Sherlock said, despair flooding his soul. “Two hours since I came down here.” Tears stung his eyes. “And twenty since it started.” 

“Courage, son,” said his father, and somehow he was there, placing a comforting hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. “These things take time. Hopefully it won’t be too much longer.” 

That was the very _definition_ of a forlorn hope, when every _minute_ slowed to mock one with its tortuous component seconds.   

But then, after approximately ten more of those terrible minutes had passed, the double doors of the room suddenly swung wide and his mother walked briskly in, beaming and carrying a small, neatly-swaddled bundle. “Sherlock, come and meet your son!” she announced joyfully. 

He ignored her, his heart in his mouth and his stomach roiling as he scrambled out of the chair (so much Scotch may have been a mistake), shambled past her at a lope, then ran, past the astonished footman, straight across the wide foyer, and then up the stairs two at a time (more efficient than three, he’d done the research when he was fourteen). 

There was a maid coming out of their room, carrying a big bundle of linens, and she gave an indignant squawk when Sherlock (somewhat precipitately) moved her out of his way. And then he was in, and there was Molly, tucked neatly into bed, the vast expanse of it making her look so small and still and pale that he suddenly froze and just stared, terrified... 

But the doctor said, “She’s very well, Mr. Holmes, came through like a trooper,” and the midwife gave an impatient sniff and groused, “Did you even _look_ at your son? Oh, very well, go to her -- but softly, mind!” 

He did go to her, his heart’s darling, and sat gingerly down on the bed beside her. And, miraculously, she opened sleepy eyes -- she had apparently been dozing -- and a flush of pink suffused her cheeks. 

“Sherlock!” she breathed, a contented smile curving her lips. 

He found that he could not reply, words choked him, his vision blurred, so he laid his head down against her blanketed side, struggling to gain command of his emotions. 

“Sherlock!” she said, again, concern in her voice now, and she moved a little, onto her side. With a gentle touch she caressed his wild hair, and his cheek. But then she spoke again, and there was laughter in her voice: “Have you been _drinking?_ ” 

He looked up at her from where he lay, his eyes swimming, and croaked, “Of course I’ve been drinking. What did you think?” 

“Well, I have never seen you overindulge, my dear, so I think I may be forgiven for being surprised. But truly, it all went very well! Did you see him?” 

Sherlock, momentarily at a loss, replied, “See who?” Then, suddenly remembering, he added quickly, “Oh! The baby. Yes, my mother had him and was vastly pleased. But I wanted to see you.” 

“Oh, Sherlock!” she said, a combination of laughter and exasperation. “Let me kiss you.” 

He moved so as to oblige her, closing his eyes and savoring the delicious, lingering contact. Then she began to laugh again and said, “You taste of whiskey!” 

“Course I do, had about half the bottle. M’father’s favorite. Are you certain you’re alright? I was so afraid for you and… and felt so damned _useless!_ ” 

“I know, and indeed I am sorry that your last view of me was so shocking. I became distracted, and then that contraction came on suddenly -- or seemed to -- and I could not help crying out. But all in all it was less difficult than I had anticipated… or… well, _feared_ , you know. But perhaps you can stay with me throughout next time, since we will both know more or less what to expect.” 

“ _Next time!_ ” Sherlock said, raising himself on his elbow and glaring down at her. “You’re already speaking of a _next time?_ ” 

“Not right away! In a year or two,” she said, her eyes sparkling with laughter. “I will give you a chance to fully recover, I assure you.” 

And at that he threw himself down again, saying ruefully. “Listen to me, going on like a lunatic.” But then suddenly looked over at her and added with some severity, “Understand, wife: I will _not_ have you worn down with excessive childbearing.” 

“Yes, husband,” she said, meekly. 

He narrowed his eyes, not so easily taken in as he’d been in former days. 

But then his mother entered the room, the neatly wrapped bundle in her arms now squalling. “I believe he may be hungry again, Molly. Sherlock! What on earth are you doing?” 

“Loving my wife,” he said, succinctly, and Molly chuckled. 

His mother, however, merely raised her brows. “Sherlock, _is_ this the time to overindulge in drink?” 

“It’s precisely the time,” he replied. “Or it _was_. And it was your fault to begin with, you had me thrown out!” 

“Sherlock!” Molly protested as the midwife began to help her to sit up in order to arrange some pillows behind her.. “That’s no way to address your dear mother! She was the greatest comfort to me in that last hour, and I am persuaded she only had my welfare in mind when she asked you to leave.” 

“She didn’t _ask_ me, though, did she?” Sherlock said sulkily, tossing a dark look at his son’s grandmother. 

She was standing calmly by, on the other side of the bed, ready to assist Molly, and she’d put her little finger in  the baby’s mouth for him to suck on, to quiet him, and now she began to coo, sing-song: “Yes, that’s right, my darling, your brave, pretty mama will soon be ready for you, and _then_ your naughty papa will get what is coming to him, won’t he, yes, indeed, he may be all of thirty-six years old but he can still have his ears boxed by _his_ mama, can’t he, my sweet boy?” 

Sherlock’s eyes widened at the pointed glare she flung at him, and he struggled to sit up a bit and scooted closer to the protection of his wife, who was now giggling. 

“Coward!” his mother accused, continuing to glare. 

“Yes, Mummy, anything you like,” Sherlock said with a sigh of surrender -- and to his relief, she almost smiled at that, and the glare softened. 

Molly said to her mother-in-law, “Please forgive Sherlock, ma’am. I’m sure he will apologize when he is more himself.” And she reached out to take the baby. 

Sherlock settled down amid the pillows -- there seemed to be a great many of them on the bed now -- and watched Molly put the baby to her breast with the guidance of the midwife, who said, “Ah, the little master has a good latch there!” Molly had winced a bit at first, but then grew more relaxed and smiled down on her son -- _their_ son -- with such contentment, and such a warm look in her eyes that he was strongly reminded of numerous paintings he’d seen over the years, and thought he now understood why the subject was so often rendered by the great artists. 

And then there was the scientific aspect… 

“He seems to know exactly what to do,” Sherlock murmured in wonder. 

“Yes, indeed,” said the midwife. “It’s quite instinctive.” 

Possible experiments began to drift through his head. Some research might be in order -- though he feared Molly might object to anything overt. He would have to cautious. Not too obvious. 

What was that word of Mycroft’s? 

Ah, yes. 

 _Slyboots_.

 

*

 

Some time later, Mycroft and his father came upstairs, too, to peek in and see for themselves how Molly had fared. They were both stunned to find her peacefully holding her now-sated baby, while the child’s father lay beside them on top of the bedclothes, snoring. 

“They’re _both_ asleep?” Father said with a chuckle, for it was obvious that Molly had come through the ordeal with her spirit intact, unlike her querulous and now, apparently, incapacitated husband. 

Mycroft, however, was not amused. “This is outrageous. My dear sister, shall I remove my inebriated sibling?” 

“Oh, no!” Molly said. “But if you please, could you put a blanket over him, so he won’t be cold.I am very well, and only want a little sleep with Sherlock by my side to make all right again.” And she blushed prettily. 

Mummy took the baby from her, and carried the infant across the room to his cradle, arranged near the fireplace -- the cradle that had been Mycroft’s and then Sherlock’s, once upon a time, fetched down from the attic just last week, thoroughly scrubbed, and adorned with soft new bedding. Meanwhile, the midwife adjusted Molly’s pillows so that the new mother might lie down in comfort close to Sherlock, then settled herself in the chair by the cradle, where she would keep watch this first night of the infant’s life. Father brought over a quilt and tenderly spread it over the lanky, somnolent form of his younger son, then said a quiet “Good night!” to his daughter-in-law. And Mycroft, after his parents had walked from the room, hand in hand, went about and turned down each of the lamps, then stood for a long moment on the threshold, wondering at the odd sensation within his breast as he looked back at the pair in the bed, their shapes just visible in the glow from the fire. 

Happiness? 

Quite possibly. 

And he found that he, too, could not help but smile as he quietly closed the bedroom door.

 

~.~

 


End file.
